


The Guise of Forgiveness

by SunseticMonster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Anxiety, Department of Mysteries, Depression, M/M, Malfoy Manor, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Potions, Prophecies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:46:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5740738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunseticMonster/pseuds/SunseticMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George's new potion has caught the interest of the entire Auror Department, thanks to an article by the elusive Draco Malfoy. So, when Harry sees Malfoy in the middle of a panic attack, he attempts to make amends as a ploy to find out what's really been going on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2015 HP Mental Health Fest! As always, big thanks to beta, Amalin!

Harry had seen Malfoy several times over the past few years, but he had never seen him quite like this.

 

Well . . . okay. He _had_ seen him like this once . . . in a very different bathroom, a lifetime ago.

 

Since then, though, always composed, ever sneering—even after losing so much—Malfoy’s post-war pride never seemed to waver.

 

It was annoying, if Harry were to be perfectly honest.  It was as if the war had changed nothing.  True, Harry didn't see Malfoy nearly as much as he had at school, but on the rare occasions that Malfoy left the Manor—usually to deliver a Potions article to the publishing company across the street from the Ministry, or to conduct some sort of business in the Ministry Research Department—he had treated Harry with the same contempt that he always had.  Well, mostly he ignored him.  In a sneering way.

 

But the Malfoy currently standing in the bathroom was not the same.

 

Actually, the man wasn't really even standing.  His hands were pressed against the edges of the sink, much the way that they had been when Harry interrupted Malfoy's crying session in sixth year, except this time his head was resting against the mirror and his entire body trembled. Despite expensive-looking dress robes, Malfoy looked disheveled.  His collar was tugged loose, the top few buttons undone, and his carefully parted hair fell in distressed pieces around his face.

 

Malfoy didn't notice Harry.  Instead, he was focused on his uneven, uncomfortable breathing and wiping sweat from his forehead. Then all at once, he pushed off from the sink and stomped into one of the stalls, slamming the door behind him.  Harry heard him choke out a cleaning spell and saw him sink down onto the dirty tile from the crack under the door.

 

Was Malfoy sick?  Should Harry call for help?

 

Harry glanced back at the stall and noticed . . . well . . . nothing.  Assumedly, Malfoy had cast some sort of Notice-Me-Not spell.

 

Figuring the bloke just wanted to be left alone and would most certainly NOT be amused by Harry's prying—and Harry was not in a Cruciatus kind of mood— Harry slowly turned around and left the way he had come, making for the other men's room near the Auror Department.

 

When Harry returned to the event—a networking forum for Ministry employees that was really kind of pointless, but totally, irritatingly required for off-duty Aurors—he gave a cursory glance around the room for Malfoy. When he didn't see him, he grabbed drinks and carried them to the table where Ron sat chatting with his Auror partner, Hannah Abbott, half-obscured by a heaping pile of appetizers.  Harry was truly thankful his best friend was an Auror, too, so he didn't have to suffer these events by himself.

 

Sometimes he missed being Ron’s Auror partner.  But after three years on the field, constant nightmares and stress had him depressed, exhausted, and addicted to Dreamless Sleep.  He’d have flashbacks to the war and wake in the middle of the night, imagining Voldemort had killed him again.  Every criminal Harry apprehended was, in his mind, a Death Eater, and—admittedly—Harry’s instincts just weren’t as good as they used to be.  Harry considered leaving the force at Hermione’s insistence—had even applied for a store clerk job at Dervish and Banges—but Shacklebolt wouldn’t allow it.  Instead, he promoted Harry to Junior Head Auror which removed him from daily field work and had him working alongside Dawlish, instead, doing the business end of things.  

 

If there was a huge raid or the Aurors needed back-up, Harry would help out.  Often times, he arrived on the scene to help facilitate the arrests.  Someday, perhaps, his mind would be in better shape and he could partner with Ron again . . .  but he wasn’t sure he even wanted to be an Auror anymore.  Lately, he’d been considering sweets and ice cream.  As in Florean Fortescue’s.  As in buying the old building and renaming it for his parents and selling ice cream and homemade biscuits to children while they shopped for school supplies in Diagon Alley.  He’d shared this idea with Ron and Hermione, who’d seemed both confused and supportive, until he suggested the name“Lily’s Licks,” when they both adamantly told him “No.”

 

Harry was getting rather good at baking, though, looking at recipes in his spare time and sorting through Mrs. Weasley’s old cookbooks that Ginny left at his flat after their break up.  Cooking was different than it had been at the Dursleys. Harry hadn't even wanted to try it again, having relished the years when Hogwarts House-Elves prepared all his meals.  But one night, Ginny had brought home treacle tart from their favorite take-away and Harry thought to himself, I could make better.  And he had.

 

Occasionally he’d do things like forget the food was in the oven or replace sugar with salt because he was too focused on a WWN Quidditch match, but when he got it right, he wasn’t bad.  Ron loved his treacle tart and asked if he could make his Aunt Felda’s oatmeal raisin cookies—apparently Mrs. Weasley had some sort of  feud with Aunt Felda and refused to touch the recipe—but Harry feared that taking requests meant making a commitment.  Right now, baking was just a hobby.  Even though the thought frequently crossed his mind, he didn’t seriously think he’d make a career out of it.  Mostly, he just did it for fun—it relaxed him.  Plus, he liked to eat.

 

Still.  He couldn’t decide if he wanted to be Ron’s partner again someday, or if he should just be done with it all and move on to something pleasant.  Perhaps then he could finally put his dark days behind him and lay the war to rest, once and for all.

 

When the war had ended, most of the younger Death Eaters and war criminals had been pardoned for their crimes, but they were frequently bullied and would turn up at the Auror Department to report attacks.

 

It was frustrating.  Everything was supposed be better after the war, but it seemed that no one—himself included—was quite ready to just forgive and forget.  Those thoughts were always there, just below the surface, no matter how hard Harry fought them, and whenever he'd see a former Slytherin classmate he, too, would immediately think "Death Eater.”

 

Hermione had started attending classes about the power of forgiveness and self-healing.  She made it no secret that she was concerned about Harry so, at her suggestion, Harry had been trying to build bridges with former Slytherins to help him to forgive and to heal.  It was weird at first.  They obviously hated him and he, well, he didn't _like_ them.  But Harry wasn’t one to give up.  If he ran into one in the streets or at work, he’d challenge himself to make some sort of positive acknowledgement.  The first to respond had been Theodore Nott, who also bought his morning coffee at Terry’s Cafe.

 

“Coffee,”  Harry had said by way of greeting.

 

Nott just looked at him.  

 

“I see you here a lot,” Harry added, as a voice in his head yelled at him to shut up. “Er—getting coffee.”

 

“It’s a coffee shop,” Nott said, trying to turn away and avoid him.

 

“Yes it is,” said Harry.

 

Nott just stared at him like he was crazy, then asked if he needed help. He looked resigned once Harry explained he was just trying to be friendly.  Nott told Harry that he wasn’t very good at it, but hi anyway, and thus began their strange routine of coffee-shop hellos.  

 

Next was Daphne Greengrass, who sometimes walked her dogs in the park near Harry's Diagon Alley flat. Hermione and Harry were walking Hermione’s neighbor’s dog, when Choochy ran up to Greengrass’s poodle and started humping her. Ever since, they'd nod or give hellos, too, and it was almost genuine.

 

Not everyone was so friendly, though.  It was much harder to make amends with people like “Event Planner” _Bitch_ Parkinson who called Harry tacky and cheap to his face when he and Andromeda were planning Teddy’s birthday.  And Malfoy, too,  seemed almost _offended_ by Harry’s attempts at making nice.  On the rare occasion that Harry did see Malfoy, a casual wave and nod was returned with a glare.  Still, Harry remained determined, because he found that Hermione had been right.  Each time he forgave someone, a huge weight was lifted from his shoulders.  

 

He tried to pay attention as Ron launched into an imitation of Ginny’s new boyfriend, but his mind kept drifting back to Malfoy. What had happened? Had he been embarrassed? Insulted? Harry was honestly surprised that Draco Malfoy was here at all.  Did Malfoy even work for the Ministry anymore? Wasn't he freelance or something? He'd never come to one of these things before.  Harry would have noticed.  

 

Harry decided that he should try to make amends with Malfoy again.  It would be a huge victory in his Win-Over-The-Slytherins game.

 

"Have you seen Malfoy?" Harry finally asked Ron in a low voice.

 

Ron pulled a face.  " _No._ Why—has he been arrested or something?"

 

"No, he hasn’t been arrested.   He's here."

 

Ron seemed to find that even more disturbing.  " _Why?_ "  He popped a handful of decorative mints into his mouth from a bowl on the table and started crunching as he looked around for Malfoy.  Harry spotted him finally, heading toward the bar, looking slightly more composed. Harry gave Ron a quick kick under the table and gestured to Malfoy.  Ron glowered.

 

"Ugh," said Ron.  "There's a face I'd rather see in nightmares."

 

"He was crying or something," Harry told him.  "In the bathroom."

 

"Just now?" Ron asked with a frown.

 

"Yeah," said Harry.  "I just left him in there, I wasn't sure if I should do something."

 

“Did he see you?”

 

“No. . . I don’t think so.”

 

Ron looked at Malfoy again, who seemed to sense the staring and tensed.

 

"Stop staring at him," Harry said.  "He knows you're talking about him."

 

"So?" asked Ron.  "I hate him.  He knows that, too."

 

"I wonder what he's been up to.”

 

Ron swallowed his food and quickly shoved more into his mouth.  "He wrote something about George's Potion, you know.  The one Dawlish was talking about in the meeting last week."

 

"The Potion X?"

 

"Yeah.  Decent article, actually.  Thought he'd tear George apart, being Malfoy and all, but it was actually just a lot of boring research and stuff.  I honestly don't know how George does it.  Whoever thought a joke shop would be so much _work?"_ Ron shuddered.

 

George had expanded a section of his store to include an apothecary of sorts, and a very unique one, at that.  He had created all sorts of potions, sometimes in the form of candies, sweets, elixirs or even lotions that had the same effect as potions and many people frequented his store purely on a medicinal basis.

 

There was one potion in particular which suddenly had the Auror department talking. Potion X incapacitated its users, keeping their faculties fully intact.  There was a loss of inhibitions, and a slightly sedating effect, but one could still walk and talk. As it turned out, users also became rather honest, though they tended to focus on the side effect of their suddenly itchy feet.  

 

George had tested it on Percy last Christmas and the stuck-up git had made a rather huge fool of himself, taking off his shoes and waxing poetic about his wonderful boss at Gringott's and how easy it was to get past security in the Billing Department.  

 

Molly and Arthur were none-too-pleased with George when he admitted that the Potion had no antidote yet, and even less pleased when George finally sent a Stunner at his brother in the middle of Christmas Dinner to shut him up.

 

Then several weeks ago,  Dawlish asked the Aurors to brainstorm methods of questioning and interrogation.  Ron had jokingly suggested they try his brother’s potion, saying that it had Percy singing like a canary.  As it turned out, some of the Aurors were familiar with the Potion and conversation quickly moved from joking to serious consideration of its potential use in a raid.   Unfortunately, no serious trials had been conducted, and Potion X was still only approved for personal use.

 

By this time, Malfoy had returned to his seat at the table nearest the exit. He stared vacantly at the evening's program laid out on the table before him with his hands clenched oddly at his elbows.

 

Harry took a peek at his own program. There were a few speeches coming up, probably about the boring Ministry plans for the upcoming year.  Still. Harry thanked Merlin and God that Shacklebolt wasn’t making him speak this year.  Harry respected Shacklebolt and was grateful for the promotion to Junior Head Auror, but he resented having to make speeches at these stupid things.  Perhaps someone finally figured out that fifteen "er's" a minute didn't really rally a crowd.

 

"Maybe he’s sick or something," Ron said, taking a sip of his drink.  "Sure looks it.  Merlin, he's even whiter than he was in school. Doesn't that git ever see the sun?"

 

Harry shrugged.

 

"Probably still crying over Voldemort losing.”

 

Harry remembered that when he last saw Malfoy cry, it was because he was failing in his task for Voldemort.  The thought made him uneasy.  “Maybe he _is_ up to something.”

 

"Harry."

 

Harry shrugged again. He didn't really believe that Malfoy _was_ , but he _could_ be.  It was possible.

 

Also, Malfoy was sitting all alone and something about _that_ bothered him as well.  Wasn’t he supposed to be surrounded by obnoxious friends and henchmen?  Where were they?  

 

Oh right.  Dead.

 

"I should go talk to him," Harry heard himself say.  Perhaps he could ask about George’s potion?

 

" _Harry."_

 

"What?" Harry blinked at Ron.  "Oh.  Well, you know what Hermione says."

 

"What?  Be an idiot?" Ron asked.

 

"No—that we need to start talking to them.  To promote unity through, um,  grassroots efforts.  Or something."

 

Ron gave him a look.  "It's _Malfoy._ She didn't mean Malfoy."

 

Harry looked at him.  "Why not Malfoy?"

 

"Because we hate him," Ron said slowly.  "Remember?  We were locked in his dungeon? They tortured Hermione and killed Dobby? Did you forget about all that?"

 

"That wasn’t Malfoy, that was Bellatrix.” And before Harry could think better of it—or, really _think at all—_ he rose from his seat.

 

Ron's protests of "Don't do it," and "Bad idea, mate," faded as Harry made his way over to Malfoy's table.  This could potentially go very, very wrong, Harry realized, but he figured the odds of Malfoy actually hexing him in a room full of Ministry officials were rather slim.  He hoped, anyway.

 

Harry approached Malfoy slowly,  as one would a Hippogriff, and tried not to blink, just to be safe.  Malfoy gulped his drink, seemingly unaware of what was happening.  

 

Harry, eyes wide as saucers, stopped about a foot away from Malfoy’s table.  He hadn’t meant to shout it, but his nerves got the best of him.

 

"Hey, Malfoy!"  

Malfoy jumped about a mile into the air, knocking over his drink and catching it just before it fell, managing to slosh the contents over the rim of the glass.

 

"Oh, shite, sorry," Harry said, rushing forward and fumbling with his wand. Malfoy got his out first and spelled away the mess.  Then he stuffed his wand away and returned to staring pointedly at the table.

 

An uncomfortable silence stretched, in which Harry rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet and Malfoy seemed to grow even more tense.  Finally,  Harry repeated, "Hey, Malfoy."

 

Jaw tight, Malfoy replied, "Hi."

 

"So . . . erm, how have you been?"

 

Malfoy took a deep, shaky breath. "Fine."  He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.  Then he opened them, took two long swallows of Firewhisky and returned to his event program, reading intently with one arm crossed around his middle.  

 

"So, uh . . ." Harry continued.  "You don't usually come to these things."

 

Malfoy muttered something about someone making him go.

 

"You . . . huh?"

 

He did not clarify.

 

There was an empty seat on the other side of the table.  Harry was tempted to take it.  Did he dare?  Malfoy hadn't killed him yet . . . he hadn’t even told him to go away.  In fact, this had been the most civil conversation they'd ever had.

 

Harry dared.  He pulled the chair out.  The legs scraped loudly across the floor and they both winced.

 

"Ugh, terrible sound," Harry joked, lamely. "Er . . ."

 

Malfoy actually looked up to glare at Harry, then flinched. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

 

It occurred to Harry that Malfoy was not, actually, a Hippogriff and he blinked, his cheeks heating with embarrassment.  "Just . . . tired."

 

Malfoy shook his head and returned to flipping through the short program, nearly ripping the pages as he did so, and finishing his drink in two final swallows.

 

"I need a drink," he announced, grabbing his empty glass and storming away from the table with astonishing speed.

 

Harry sat there, feeling foolish, and telling himself he shouldn't be surprised to be feeling any other way after approaching his former enemy.  Looking across the hall, he made eye contact with Ron, who was clearly laughing at him.  

 

He doubted Malfoy was coming back.  Why would he?  Harry made him spill his drink and then stared at him like a complete nutter.  Well, at least he’d made an effort.  He could tell Hermione.  She’d be proud.

 

Shockingly,  Malfoy returned moments later with two drinks.  He slammed them onto the table and sat back in his chair, scooching it away from Harry.

 

"There." Malfoy gestured to one of the drinks with a jerky flip of his hand.  He grabbed the other one.  "Cheers.  I guess."  He swallowed hard, his cheeks reddening, and took a drink.

 

Unsure, Harry slowly reached for the other drink.  Suddenly doubting that Malfoy _—_ really, this was _Draco Malfoy—_ had gotten him a drink, Harry paused with his hand hovering over the glass.

 

"Um . . . " Harry began.  He was about to ask _is this for me_ , when Malfoy reached forward and pushed the drink toward him without a word.  "Er . . . thanks . . . " Harry took it, motioned a toast toward Malfoy and took a sip. "That's, uh, rather good," Harry stuttered.

 

"Hmm," Malfoy agreed. Or something.  Considering the rate at which he was drinking it, he must have agreed.  

 

"So," Harry said, fishing for things to say but refusing to give up until Malfoy forced him.  He glanced over at Ron, who was staring. "I hate coming to these things," he concluded.

 

Harry heard a snort.  Had Malfoy just laughed?

 

"You too, then?" Harry guessed.

 

Malfoy scowled.  "Understatement. But what I don't understand," Malfoy continued in a small, tight voice, eyes darting to Harry and quickly away,  "is why _you_ would." When Harry didn't answer, Malfoy went on.  "I mean, you're the darling of the Ministry, after all. I'm shocked I don't see your name in here."  Malfoy gestured to the program.

 

"Believe it or not," Harry replied with a roll of his eyes, "I don't actually like the attention.  I had to beg Shacklebolt not to make me speak this year."  He took a swallow of the Firewhisky that Malfoy had got for him, conceding that it was both very good and very strong.

 

"Yeah right," Malfoy muttered, staring off at something in the distance and frowning.  "Potter, why are you even sitting here?"

 

Harry paused.  "Huh?"

 

" _Huh?"_ Malfoy mocked.  "Why are you sitting here I said."

 

"Well, because," Harry stuttered, "you were sitting alone and—"

 

"Yes.  Remind me not to do that again.  Perhaps I preferred it that way.  Perhaps sitting alone meant that I wanted to be sitting alone."  

 

"I guess so," said Harry.  "But I wanted to talk to you and—"

 

"But why?"  Malfoy looked back at him again, then away, seemingly unable to bear eye contact for more than a second. He proceeded to take another long pull of his drink, then began folding tiny triangles into the corners of his cocktail napkin.

 

Harry shrugged.   _Because I wanted to know why you were freaking out in the bathroom_.

 

"Look," Harry felt unwelcome, but strangely still intrigued in the way that Malfoy—the bastard—had always left him feeling strangely intrigued.  "I should probably get back to—" he gestured lamely at Ron.  "But. Um.  Thanks for the drink.  And . . ." he hesitated, bracing himself.  "And if you ever want to get another drink together sometime . . . just to talk, or whatever, you know.  Um . . . the next one's on me."

 

Slowly, Malfoy raised his head and gave him a very funny look.  He said nothing.

 

Harry realized that it sounded like he’d just asked Malfoy out.

 

"Er . . ." Harry stood, awkwardly, rubbing his hands together.  "Right."

 

Malfoy looked away, lips pressed together tightly.

 

"Okay," Harry blustered on.  "Um, bye."

 

" _Bye_."

 

Feeling strangely wrong-footed, Harry headed back to his table.

 

It had been weird.  Not really as bad as he thought, but . . . weird.  He wasn't sure if Malfoy actually wanted to bury the hatchet and move on, but Harry's continued curiosity over what had upset Malfoy was enough to ensure that they would have that drink.

 

And it wasn’t a _date_.  It wasn’t.  Harry had been over this in his head a million times before.  Sure, he’d thought about blokes—thought about them being fit, thought about kissing them, sometimes.  But—he’d dated Ginny.  He’d _loved_ Ginny.

 

Of course, she left him because Harry had issues getting physically close to her.  But so did lots of people after the war.  Didn’t they?  PTSD or something.

 

Also, this was Malfoy and Harry’s current line of thinking was absolutely ridiculous because Malfoy had said nothing to indicate any sort of interest in Harry, plus men went for drinks together all the time without it meaning anything.

 

And Malfoy hadn’t exactly said yes, either.

 

So, in the name of forgiveness and healing and wanting to know why Malfoy was crying in the bathroom, Harry would need to get creative.

 

….

….

….

 

"But then he wrote some article about it," George was saying, "which helped boost business, so I really can’t complain."  

 

The following Sunday, Harry went to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes to ask George more about Potion X and see if he knew anything about what Malfoy had been up to.  Harry figured Malfoy must have been around the joke shop at least once in order to write that article.

 

George admitted his initial suspicion, considering Malfoy once used his products to allow Death Eaters into Hogwarts—an event that ultimately resulted in Bill's maiming. But then Malfoy's article happened.

 

George pulled out a beaten up copy of _Potions Today_ and flipped to the article Malfoy wrote on Potion X.  "You can have it if you want," George said.  "Ron said the Aurors were thinking about using it.  It works great, you know, I think it's one of our best products yet—you remember Christmas when we used it on Percy? Mum went spare." George laughed.  Harry tried to ignore when George occasionally said things like "our" and "we" even after Fred had been gone for five years. "I gave some to Lee a few weeks ago and convinced him to buy 30 crates of Nosebleed Nougat to send to his girlfriend for her birthday.  He returned most of them a week later and sent me an invoice for blood replenishing potion, but still.  Imagine the possibilities."

 

"Does Malfoy come in here a lot?" Harry asked.

 

"Nah, not really," answered George.  "I think he's scared of me, the little shite. He usually just looks around and doesn't buy anything.  I thought he was stealing, so I emptied his pockets once on the way out."

 

Harry's eyes widened. "And?"

 

George shrugged. "Nothing interesting.  Candy wrappers and quills.  Some ugly picture of his mum.” He laughed. “Pissed him off, though. I told him it was store policy, but I don't think he believed me. Haven't seen much of him since. Well," he amended, "sometimes I see him round Pringles Pub with that oaf he used to hang out with at school.  Not the one that died."

 

"Goyle?"

 

"Oh.  I thought it was Gumble."

 

"Right."

….

….

….

 

Pringles Pub was a small, fancy tavern in Diagon Alley and Harry made it the next place to grab his Friday night pint in hopes that he'd run into Malfoy.  It turned out that George had given him good advice when, after only three hours of nursing the same Butterbeer, Malfoy and — good God, was that _Goyle_?— walked in and took a table in a secluded corner area.

 

Malfoy wore black trousers and a white button down with the sleeves slightly rolled.  If Harry looked closely, he could just see the edge of his faded Dark Mark, peeking out.

 

Malfoy looked uncomfortable, much like he had at the Ministry function, despite his casual dress.  Goyle, on the other hand, looked so much _older_ Harry could hardly believe it.  Instead of looking like an oversized boy, Goyle had a beard and was huge and muscular and strangely looked kind of like a nice person if you didn't know any better.

 

Harry quickly tired of looking at Goyle, though, and instead focused his attention on the person he came to see.  Harry supposed he ought to try to make amends with Goyle, too, but he’d promised (told, mentioned, whatever) Malfoy that they'd go for a drink.  So that's what Harry planned to do.

 

After watching the two for a few moments, Harry took notice of their body language. Something about Malfoy didn't seem quite right.  He looked nervous and agitated and his whole body was tense.  He kept his arms and legs tightly crossed while drinking his pint.  His right knee bounced rapidly and he kept shooting desperate glances at the door.  

 

Goyle looked frustrated.  At one point, Harry saw him put what appeared to be a comforting hand on Malfoy's shoulder and Malfoy slapped his hand off with such sudden force that one would have thought he'd been burned.

 

They glared at each other and then Malfoy dropped his head into his hands.  He remained this way for several minutes as Goyle looked around the pub and got more drinks for them.

 

Why had it appeared to hurt when Goyle touched him?  Harry was reminded of the Dark Mark—the one he knew both men had—and shivered.  Was it something like that?  Some lingering presence of Voldemort? He hoped not.

 

Or maybe Ron was right—and Malfoy _was_ sick.  What if he had some sort of weird skin disease?

 

Gross.

 

Harry grimaced, swallowing the dregs of his warm Butterbeer.

 

Finally having enough, Harry ordered them drinks.  He leaned against the bar, aiming to be casual as the waitress brought the former Slytherins a round of Firewhisky.

 

The waitress said something to the pair and Goyle looked abruptly over, his mouth hanging open.  He elbowed Malfoy, whose head was still in his hands. In response, Malfoy yelped and actually punched Goyle.  He started yelling something about not wanting to be touched, when the larger man gestured to Harry.  Malfoy froze, his eyes widening with trepidation as he looked slowly to the bar.

 

Before Harry could think better of it and before Malfoy could cause Goyle any more damage, Harry made his way over to their table.

 

"Hey, Malfoy," Harry greeted with a small, awkward wave.  Malfoy was still staring in horror even though Harry hadn’t shouted at him this time or forgotten to blink. "Goyle," Harry nodded, blinking again. "It's been a while."

 

For a moment, no one said a word.  Harry blinked again, Goyle gaped and Malfoy stared. The awkwardness was so thick Harry could taste it.  He was just about to give up and bolt when finally, Goyle spoke. "Potter.”  It was more a grunt of confusion than a greeting, but Harry accepted it with a nod and a blink, all the same.

 

Malfoy dropped his gaze to the table.  Feeling like someone needed to say something, Harry turned back to Goyle. "Er—missed you at the Ministry function last week," he offered desperately.

 

"Huh?" asked Goyle.

 

"I said—"

 

"He wasn't invited, you moron," Malfoy interrupted, speaking to the table.

 

Goyle shot Malfoy a look, offended, then repeated, "I wasn't invited."

 

" _Obviously_ ," Malfoy grit out.  

 

Goyle gave him another look and then rolled his eyes. "Obviously," he repeated.

 

"Oh," said Harry, remembering too late that the function was just for Ministry employees and not actually a Hogwarts Reunion, like it had seemed.  Harry eyed the empty seat at their table.  It didn't seem like it was going to be offered to him, so he just sat down in it anyways and took a drink of his Firewhisky.

 

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?" Malfoy demanded.  He inched closer to the side of the bench, nearly falling off.

 

"Um." Harry gestured to the drinks on the table.  "Uh, these are from me, you know."

 

" _So?"_

 

"Well," Harry was beginning to realize that this had probably been a bad idea.  More distressing was why that thought hadn't occurred to him until right now.  "Well, we talked about meeting for drinks. . .  "

 

"You did?" Goyle raised his eyebrows, looking between them.  He actually looked sort of impressed, which Harry thought was weird.  "That's great, Draco.”  Goyle reached up to pat him on the shoulder, then thought better of it and quickly pulled his hand back.

 

"No." Malfoy's voice shook. "No, Potter. We. Did. _Not_."

 

Harry was about to clarify when Goyle jumped back in.  "Well, I think maybe you should," he half-whispered to Draco.  

 

Malfoy's eyes widened.  " _No?_ " he said back to Goyle.

 

"It'd be good for you," Goyle replied, speaking to Malfoy as if Harry wasn't there.  "Actually, I told my mother I'd bring her groceries tonight, anyway, so . .  think I’ll just pay my bill and go." He started to get up when Malfoy reached out a pale hand and latched it onto Goyle's arm, digging his fingernails in and pulling him back down.

 

"Goyle," Malfoy sounded calm but he looked panicked. "Sit down."

 

Goyle looked torn.  Harry had no idea what was going on.  He could understand anger, annoyance, even disgust at his presence . . . but Malfoy seemed _terrified_ of him.

 

"Thanks for the drink Potter," Goyle said.  He moved to stand again. "Have fun," he said to Malfoy.

 

" _Goyle_ ," Malfoy hissed. " _Sit._ "  

 

"Sorry. See ya, Malfoy."  Goyle easily shook off the blonde's arm and made his way to the exit.  Malfoy stared longingly at his giant back until the door swung shut behind him, then returned his dejected glance to his drink.

 

"So . . ." Harry began, fiddling with the cocktail napkin under his drink.  Why exactly had he wanted to do this, again?  Was his life really that boring that he went looking for trouble?

 

Malfoy picked up his drink and finished it with startling speed. Then he moved onto Goyle's drink,  at a slightly more reasonable pace. "Thanks for the drink," Harry heard him mumble.

 

"Er, yeah. Sure."  Malfoy's nervousness was apparently catching.  Harry wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans and took a fortifying sip of his own drink.  "I couldn't remember which kind you liked, so I just got you Ogden's."

 

Malfoy gave him a careful look.  "How would you know which kind I liked?"

 

"You know," Harry gestured awkwardly, "what you were drinking at the function."

 

"Oh." They sat for a moment before Malfoy swallowed and added, "It wasn't the kind I like.  It was Galligher’s, I think.  It was all they had."

 

Harry fiddled again with his cocktail napkin.  "Oh," he said.  

 

Malfoy pressed his lips together.  "I like Perschel's, actually.”

 

"O-oh," Harry said again, trying to sound brighter.  "Yeah, I've heard of that. I think Arthur had it once.  On Christmas or something."

 

Malfoy hummed and raised his eyebrows, looking unimpressed.  He continued to nod, looking around as if dying to be anywhere else in the world.  He was tapping his fingers together in an odd way.

 

"I'm actually more of a Butterbeer man, myself," said Harry, trying not to stare at the finger tapping.

 

"You would be."    _Tap. Tap._

 

"Why would I be?"

 

"Because." _Tap. Tap-tap. Tap._ Malfoy kept his eyes firmly on the table.  "You're . .    _you_.  You know."  He finished Goyle's drink, his cheeks reddening further.  Harry motioned for the waitress, this time ordering Malfoy a Perschel's.

 

"Thank you," Malfoy said and he actually sounded kind of sincere.  Perhaps he had a drinking problem.  Harry hoped not.

 

"So, actually, I wanted to ask you about the article you wrote for _Potions Today_."

 

"Oh?"

 

"The study that you did on Potion X.  Do you really think it could be used for incapacitation?"

 

"Did you read my article?"

 

Harry hadn't _actually_ read it. "Um . . . parts." He'd mostly just looked at the pictures of Malfoy.

 

"I'll take that as a 'no.'"

 

"Well, the Auror Department is interested in it, that's all.  And Dawlish was thinking—wondering, more specifically— if it could be made into a gas of sorts.  To breathe in, or something.  Or, like, a vapor. "

 

Malfoy shrugged, but he seemed slightly interested.  "Well . . . considering the components . . . theoretically, it could . . . "

 

"Like I was thinking it could be tossed in a room on a raid or something and knock out everyone in the place."

 

"Well, yes, Potter, but that would include you and your heroic team of valiant Aurors.  The last thing you'd want is to be stumbling around giggling like morons, though, come to think of it, that's all you and your Weasel ever did at school, so maybe you would.  I wouldn't know."

 

Harry ignored this.  "What if we used gas masks?  Or something . . . I dunno."

 

"What?" Malfoy frowned.  The word was obviously foreign to him.

 

"A gas mask. It's a mask that filters out the potion so you can breathe."

 

"Is that a thing?"

 

"Muggles use them."

 

Malfoy gave Harry a hard look, as if trying to determine whether or not it was a challenge.  Finally, he settled on "Hmm."

 

"Well, what do you think?" Harry pressed.

 

"What do I think," Malfoy muttered to himself, looking up at the ceiling and rubbing his hands along his knees. He folded his hands and looked at Harry.  "I think it's not completely idiotic.  Which is shocking, I'll admit."

 

Harry grinned, despite himself.  For some reason, impressing Malfoy seemed important.

 

"Have you considered, Potter," Malfoy continued, "that a spell could do the same thing?"

 

Harry frowned.  "Like a Bubble-Head Charm?"

 

"Perhaps." Malfoy sipped his drink.  "Or maybe something more large-scale.  Maybe something we can set the  parameters for—of who the potion would affect or how it would . . . Or-or perhaps we could even use wards.  Not the regular kind, but _potion_ wards."  Malfoy was beginning to grow excited.

 

"Yeah, maybe—"

 

"Or _maybe_ ," Malfoy continued, gesturing animatedly, "you can develop an antidote.  Something specifically tuned to cancel out the potion, but that would be safe to consume on its own, assuming that you don't end up having to use the Potion X.  The Aurors could take it in advance of a raid and then they wouldn't be affected either way.  There may be _some_ side effects, it's possible . . . I'm not sure.  Preferably none at all, of course, but . . . maybe something containing Mandrake Root? Or Bicorn Horn? Or a modified version of Pepper-Up?"

 

Harry paused, an idea beginning to form in his head. "Do you know how to create potions?"

 

Malfoy scowled.  "You are kidding. Do _I_ know how to create potions? Potter, we studied Potions for seven fucking years—eight, actually—of course I fucking do. Not to mention my apprenticeship under Maggie Reinbold. "

 

Harry hadn't heard about it, nor did he know who Maggie Reinbold was, but he assumed that she was someone important.  "Er—right.  Yeah."

 

"It's what I _do_ , Potter," Malfoy continued in an irritated voice, sounding more like the Malfoy that Harry remembered from Hogwarts, which strangely put him at ease.  "I don't just write nonsense articles, you know. I actually study it.   _Technically,_ I am a Potions Master—I have the degree if you'd like to see it—I'm just not practicing at the moment.  Of course, if you actually _read_ my article, you would know all of this."  He crossed his arms and stuck his nose in the air.

 

"Okay, okay," Harry amended. "Sorry.  I know.  I was just wondering, you know, since you work at the Ministry—" Harry paused.  "Er—what exactly _is_ it that you do there, anyway?"

 

Malfoy tensed for a moment and then relaxed, raising an eyebrow. "Top secret."

 

Harry rolled his eyes.  "I’m sure.  Anyway, Dawlish agrees that it could be huge for the Ministry—and I'm sure for you and for George—if this works.  We'll get a study grant—I've written them before.  If you’re interested, I could talk to Dawlish and see what he says."

 

Malfoy's eyes lit up, then he frowned, as if to hide it.  "What's in it for me?"

 

Harry paused. "Er—I'm sure they'd pay you."

 

Malfoy shrugged.  "Don't need it."

 

"Um," Harry paused.  "The enjoyment of doing something you love?"

 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, unimpressed.

 

"You can write an article about it.  Or we can write one—about you.  I don't know," Harry rushed on, getting the impression that Malfoy was enjoying his discomfort.  "I'll ask Dawlish.  I'm sure they'll do something.  Print your name somewhere, throw a parade in your honor."

 

Malfoy snorted into his drink.

 

Harry laughed, too.  "Just tell me what you'd want, then."

 

Malfoy pretended to think.  "You know, Potter? I think a parade could work."

 

….

….

….

 

Harry and Ron approached Dawlish the next day to get approval for an official study of Potion X.  Dawlish told Harry to bring Malfoy in A.S.A.P. to sign the necessary documents.  There was a lab Malfoy could use near Dawlish's office and everything ordered for the study would be sent there. Excited, Harry sent an Owl to Malfoy straight away, asking if he could meet in the Ministry lobby at 2:00 the following day.

 

Once 2:20 rolled around, Harry knew it was futile to keep waiting. Malfoy had never written back and clearly was not coming.  

 

After several more frustrating attempts to reach Malfoy, including a fleet of owls, Floo-calling and even sending his Patronus, Harry decided to visit the Manor.  He had his own reputation on the line, now, and he wasn't going to allow Malfoy to screw this up for him.  Plus, why was Malfoy making himself so scarce?  He'd seemed genuinely excited about it at the pub.  He couldn't be that good of a liar, right?

 

Despite a precautionary ward scan of the Manor, Harry still expected a deadly curse or a beheading hex as he rang the elaborate snake-shaped doorbell.  When nothing happened but the sound of an old war anthem played in chimes, Harry released his breath and stopped wincing.  

 

Narcissa Malfoy answered the door shortly after.  He had expected a House-Elf before remembering that many of the Malfoy's assets had been seized in war retributions, including House-Elves.

 

Upon recognizing Harry and noticing his Auror robes, the color—if you could call it that—drained immediately from Narcissa’s  face.  "Mr. _Potter_?" she asked in confusion.

 

Harry smiled to show that he wasn't there to arrest her or anything, and hoped that there wasn't an actual reason to.  "Hi, Mrs. Malfoy."

 

"Please, come in.” She sounded wary.

 

"Thank you."  Harry stepped inside, trying not to look around too much. The entryway of the Manor was making him recall things he'd rather keep buried.  He did notice that the decor seemed less sinister than it had five years ago.

 

"What can I do for you?"

 

"Well.”  Harry heard movement upstairs.  "Um Malf—er, um Draco lives here, right?"

 

Her eyes narrowed slightly.  "Yes," she said slowly.

 

"It's nothing bad!" She glared at the implication.  "Not that it would be," he rushed on. "It's actually a good, um, thing. A work thing."

 

"A work thing?" Narcissa folded her arms. "What work? Draco doesn't work for anyone.  He is self-employed."

 

"Doesn’t he work with the Ministry?"

 

Narcissa thought for a minute, then gave him a tight nod.  She glanced up the stairs, then back at Harry.  "Yes. Continue."

 

Why was she being so weird?  Perhaps it was hereditary. "Well . . . that's it.” Harry shrugged. “I'm here to see him.  So, is he here?"

 

Narcissa paused, looking reluctant.  "One moment, Mr. Potter."  She Apparated, assumedly to find Malfoy.  Harry glanced around the entryway as he waited.   An ugly and terrifying painting of a rabbit being Avada Kedavra’d hung above two armchairs.

 

A minute later, Narcissa reappeared, her expression cool. "It seems he is out for the day.  Shall I pass along a message?"

 

"Um," Harry hesitated.  Someone was definitely moving around up there . . .  "No—that's okay.  Or.  Well, actually—"

 

Narcissa raised an eyebrow.

 

"Could you have him Owl me?   Or, or Floo me?  Or he can just come to the Ministry if he wants.”  Harry raised his voice slightly in case that _was_ Malfoy moving around. “Well, if he does decide to, you know, Floo me, just tell him that I reset the wards at my house to accommodate him.  "

 

Narcissa blinked slowly.  "Will that be all, Mr. Potter?"

 

A door opened and closed upstairs.  Harry raised his eyes upward, as did Narcissa.  Then he gave her a look.  "Out for the day?" he asked, doubtfully.

 

She narrowed her eyes.  "Is that all?"

 

Suddenly, Malfoy emerged at the top of the stairs wearing a pair of Falmouth Falcons Quidditch Warm-Up sweats and a faded T-shirt.  His arms were crossed tightly around his middle.  Narcissa closed her eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh.  "Draco," she said, her voice sounding falsely bright.  "Home so soon.”

 

Malfoy ignored her and came down the steps.  When he reached the second to last step he stopped, looked at the floor and said, "Hey."

 

Harry frowned, somewhat taken aback.   _Hey?_  Odd. "Hey. . . "  
  


Narcissa looked between them.  "Tea?"

 

Malfoy scratched his arm and nodded, swallowing hard.

 

She paused.  "Draco, are you going to ask Mr. Potter if he'd like to sit?"

 

Malfoy gestured to the armchairs under the dead rabbit.  "Sit down, Potter, if you'd like."

 

Harry did, only because he didn't want to be rude, and Malfoy grudgingly joined him.   The blonde inhaled deeply through his nose, tensed his shoulders and then let out a shaky exhale.  

 

"Er—"

 

"Okay, _what_ , Potter?  Spit it out."

 

"Didn't you get my Owl?"  

 

"Oh." Malfoy turned away. "Yeah."

 

Harry looked at him but Malfoy stared fixedly at the floor.  "So . . . why didn't you show up or write me back?"

 

Malfoy shrugged.  "Sorry.  I was busy."

 

"I thought you wanted to do this," said Harry.  "You seemed interested when we talked about it."

 

"I got busy."

 

"Ah," Harry moved to stand, annoyed. "Busy.  Yeah.  Sending an Owl takes all of, what, two seconds?"

 

Malfoy crossed his arms and glared.   When he didn't say anything else, Harry started walking towards the Floo.  He was done with this shite.  Dawlish was going to kill him for wasting their money. "Tell your Mum thanks anyway for the tea."

 

"Wait.” Malfoy stood, looking torn.

 

Harry waited.  “What?”

 

"I do want to do it, okay?  I apologize.  I-I should have said I wasn't coming.  That was rude."

 

"Okay . . . well, good.  Can you come tomorrow then, same time?" Malfoy pressed his lips together and frowned.  "Well?" Harry prompted. "Can you?"

 

"No," Malfoy said, flatly.  "I can't."

 

Harry huffed and rolled his eyes.  "Okay, then, when can you?"

 

Malfoy opened his mouth to speak and then hesitated, closing it again. "I-I . . ." Malfoy sighed.  Then his words came slowly, as if being dragged out of him.  "I just can't go there."

 

Harry was confused. "What—to the Ministry?"

 

"Yes, Potter."

 

"Why not?"

 

Malfoy's eyes flashed. "I. Just. _Can't._ "

 

Harry rolled eyes.  Malfoy didn’t make any sense.  "Well, then, how do you propose we do this?"

 

"Here."  Malfoy gestured to the Manor.  "I can do it here.  In _my_ lab.   It's much better than the lab at the Ministry, anyways."

 

"Okay . . . " Harry said slowly.  "Dawlish will have to approve it."

 

Malfoy nodded eagerly. “Of course.  It’ll be better this way.”

 

Harry couldn’t see why it would matter.  "Um . . . and you'll have to stop by the Ministry to pick everything up," Harry added. "I mean, everything was sent there already."

 

"Can't you just get it?"

 

"Can’t you?”

 

"Why can't _you_ , Potter?" Malfoy shot back.  "It's your little project, after all."

 

Harry sighed.  He was too busy for this shite.  

 

....

….

….

 

A few days later, Malfoy had adjusted the Floo in his Potions Lab to allow Harry to bring over all of the Ministry-approved ingredients and bottles and waivers and order sheets that the project required.

 

Malfoy was not there when Harry arrived.  Instead, Harry found a note that told him to leave everything on the mahogany work table and to enjoy the snack.  A biscuit and charmed-hot tea sat beside the note, which Harry admitted was a rather thoughtful gesture, but the ringing peals of "Constant Vigilance!” in his head had him Vanishing the items before he was tempted.  Harry wrote back, thanking Malfoy for the snack and telling him that he'd be checking in on him each week to assess his progress and get his signature.

 

….

….

….

 

"Malfoy? _Really_?" Hermione asked the following evening as she, Ron and Harry walked through the park near his flat, carrying coffee from Terry’s. They met like this once a week to catch up and relax.  Sometimes Harry brought Teddy or Hermione brought Choochy along and they’d stroll down to the pond on the southern end of the park.

 

"Yeah," said Harry with a grin.  "Aren't you proud of my steps toward the unity of Wizard-kind?"

 

"Well, yes," she said, "of course I am, Harry."  Hermione gave him a small, consoling pat on the shoulder.  "It's very good of you to try and put your differences aside.  I'm just surprised he agreed to it, that's all.  I mean, after the last disaster he—Oh!" she clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening.

 

Ron and Harry exchanged suspicious looks.

 

"After the last _what_?" Harry asked.

 

"Nothing."

 

"You said _'last disaster_.' What disaster?'" Ron demanded.  He was trying and failing to pour a sugar packet into the tiny opening on his coffee lid without spilling.

 

"Oh.  Did I say that?" Hermione asked lightly, rummaging about in her bag with intense concentration.  

 

"What?" Harry asked.  "What are you talking about?”

 

"She knows something," Ron nodded, fervently.

 

“I’m certain that I don’t.”

 

"See?” said Ron. “She's got that _look_.  You get that look on your face when you know something."

 

"I do _not_ get a look."

 

"Yes, you do. You have it right now," said Ron.  "Harry, look at her face."

 

Harry glanced at Hermione.  One eye was sort of scrunched up, shrewdly, and her lips were pursed. "You do have a look," he agreed.

 

"See?" said Ron.

 

"Oh, you two are so stupid." Hermione shoved a hairbrush back into her purse and clicked it shut.

 

"Spit it out, already," snapped Ron.  "We know you know something."

 

She paused, and the two boys followed suit.  "Well." She looked left and right and lowered her voice. "I shouldn't be telling you this but . . ."

 

" _What_?" Harry and Ron asked in unison.

 

"Well . . . two years ago when I worked for the Department of Mysteries there was a . . . well, there was a bit of an _incident_ , you could say."

 

Harry and Ron exchanged glances.

 

"How shall I put this . . . we were working on trying to restore some of the Prophecies that had been destroyed and we'd hired Malfoy as a Potions Expert. At the time, he was trying to create a Memory Solution to apply to the actual shelves, you remember—where the Prophecies had sat for a number of years, to try and see if they had left any sort of magical imprint that we could hone— "

 

'Hermione!" Harry interrupted, his head starting to spin.  "You never told us any of this!"

 

"What gives?" demanded Ron.  "You just forgot to mention that you worked with Malfoy?"

 

"And the Prophecies?  Why didn't you ever tell us?" Harry asked.  He wasn't sure if he was angry that she'd tampered with the Prophecies or just upset that she hadn't asked for his and Ron's help.

 

"Well, see, I knew you would react this way, Harry, and since it really wasn't any of your business . . . "

 

"Any of our business." Ron gestured to her with his thumb. "I'm her own boyfriend and she never bothers to tell me.  It's always, 'What happened at work today, dear?' And 'Oh, you know, nothing interesting,' and 'you wouldn't believe how boring the Department of Mysteries is.'  What a load of tosh!"

 

Harry agreed that it was a load of tosh.

 

"Makes me wonder what else you've been hiding." Ron gave her a careful look.

 

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Ron.” Hermione glared at him.  "When you two are finished persecuting me, please let me know."

 

Ron got in a few more complaints before fading out and gesturing for Hermione to continue.

 

" _Anyway_ , Malfoy had actually created a brilliant potion and we'd managed to restore quite a few Prophecies when . . ." She shook her head.  "He had a complete meltdown.  He saw _something_ we think, but nobody knows what.  Or maybe he just lost it.  Either way, he was hysterical. He couldn't breathe, or so he said, and Kevin Entwhistle and Rovan Sterling had to cast an Incarcerous on him just to get him to Saint Mungo's."

 

Harry couldn't believe it.  How could Hermione have kept this a secret?  And  how could Entwhistle and whoever Rovan Sterling was keep it a secret, too?  Harry was shocked that this hadn't ended up as front page news, to be honest.  The _Daily Prophet_ would have eaten it up.  

 

"He managed to destroy the potion and he ruined the lab," Hermione continued, "and he refused to come back and work on it.  Sterling begged him for his research, but he told him he forgot it all." She rolled her eyes.  "No one believed him, of course.  He came back to work a few times after that.  They were hoping he'd snap out of it and fix everything, but he wasn't the same.  He hardly spoke to anyone, he'd leave for lunch and never came back afterward.  Finally, he Owled Sterling one day asking for a leave of absence for health reasons."  She frowned.  "Sad, actually.  He had almost started to behave like a decent human being.  Plus, it set the rest of us months behind schedule and the paperwork was a nightmare."

 

Harry was having trouble wrapping his head around this story.  "They must have taken him back, then, eventually . . . he still works for the Ministry.  He was at the function two weeks ago."

 

Hermione nodded. "We kept the whole thing confidential, as much as we could. I think they'll call him here and there for an odd job, if they can't find someone else to do it.  Nothing major.  Nothing like . . . " She gestured to Harry, indicating the Potion X assignment.  "And never for the Department of Mysteries. He'd turn it down."

 

"Maybe Dawlish doesn't know," Ron said, looking worried.

 

"I'm certain he doesn't," Hermione replied, sharply.  "And I'm certain he never will."  She gave them both a careful look.  "Will he?"

 

Harry and Ron looked at each other.

 

"Yeah, sure," Harry muttered.

 

"Right," said Ron, sounding disappointed.  He turned to Harry.  "Are you sure you want him doing this, then?  I mean this is a big deal to George and I'd hate for Malfoy of all people to ruin it."

 

"Well, he's the only one that can do this," Harry said.  "How many Potions Masters do you know?"

 

"Snape's portrait?" Ron suggested.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes.  "You realize that there are only two living Potions Masters left in Britain, right?  The rest are overseas and they can't just show up and start practicing here. There are laws."

 

"Slughorn?" Ron guessed.

 

"Not a real Potions Master," Hermione said, shaking her head.  "Just a Potions Teacher—you need to be nationally certified now.  It's Maggie Reinbold and she's about a hundred years old and almost nastier than Snape."  She paused, as if something just occurred to her. "You know, we were really lucky to learn from him.  An actual Potions Master."

 

Harry and Ron shared a look.  Snape may have had some positive traits, but uplifting students wasn't one of them.  "Well, I think we should let him try.  Think about it, Ron.  Imagine how cool it'd be to actually _use_ Potion X on a raid?"

 

"I'm not saying I don't think it'd be cool," Ron defended, with his hands raised.  "I want to say go for it.  And if the Ministry buys a ton of it, George will make loads—which means better Christmas presents." Hermione scoffed and Ron continued.  "Your call, Harry."

 

Hermione and Ron both gave him a careful look.

 

"He wants to do it," Harry insisted, remembering how excited Malfoy initially seemed. "I think he should.  It'll be fine.  I'll make sure."

 

Of course, he had no idea how to do that.

 

"It's not really my area, and I’m a bit busy with S.P.E.W. at the moment," Hermione said, "but if you want my help . . . or if Malfoy does—"

 

“Oh, eager to hang with Malfoy, are we?”  Ron gave her a suspicious look.  

 

“Don’t be an idiot, Ron,” she snapped.  “I doubt he’ll want my help, anyway, but I suppose I could offer my assistance if he does.”

 

Harry doubted it, too, but he appreciated the offer.  "Thanks, Hermione."

 


	2. Chapter 2

The next time Harry showed up at the Manor, he brought with him Malfoy's favorite caffeinated drink, a chai tea, extra sweet, from Terry's Cafe.  Theodore Nott thought Harry lost his mind when he asked him what Malfoy's favorite drink was.  Harry assured him that he wasn't planning to poison him and Nott eventually remembered that Malfoy used to order the vile drinks from Madame Puddifoot's as a kid.

 

Harry stumbled through the Floo with two drinks poorly balanced in his hands and papers tucked under his arm.  Coffee spilled onto his hand and he swore.

 

Malfoy, who was wearing goggles and stirring something, jumped slightly and looked over at him.

 

Harry waved with his elbow and quickly set the drinks down.  He cast a drying spell on the papers and on himself. Malfoy gave him a weird look—well, it looked weird from behind the goggles—and turned back to his work.

 

"Malfoy—"

 

"One moment, Potter," he murmured.  Harry set the coffee and tea down on a small, wooden table between two wingback chairs in the lab and when Malfoy still hadn't acknowledged Harry, he helped himself into one of the seats and, eventually, picked the _Daily Prophet_ up off the floor and began checking the Quidditch scores.

 

After some time, Malfoy took off the goggles and moved toward Harry. "Okay," he said, wiping his hands on his shirt.  Harry looked up from the newspaper. Malfoy was flushed and a little sweaty and his hair was sort of goggle-rumpled.  He was wearing the same Falmouth Falcons outfit he'd worn the last time.  Despite the ratty jim-jams, Harry had to admit that Malfoy looked pretty damn good.  

 

Harry gulped, suddenly nervous. "Hey. How's the work going?"  He held Malfoy's tea out to him.

 

"Good, actually." Malfoy grinned and looked at the tea. "What's that?"

 

"It's, uh, chai tea," said Harry.

 

Gray eyes lit up, then grew suspicious.

 

"Extra sweet," Harry added. "Theodore Nott says you like it."

 

"Theo?" Malfoy looked confused.  "I haven't seen him in years. When the hell were you talking to him? And how the hell does he know I like chai tea?"

 

Shrugging, Harry said, "I see him in the mornings sometimes."

 

"And you saw fit to interview him about me?" An apology was on the tip of Harry’s tongue when Malfoy snatched the tea and took a huge swig.  "Ohh, _Merlin._ " He drank again.  "Is this from Terry's?"

 

"Yeah.  They're the best."

 

The inappropriate sounds Malfoy made told Harry that he agreed.  "Oh, well done, Potter.  This is actually perfect."  He hummed contentedly.  "I haven't had this in ages."

 

"To pay you back for the biscuit," said Harry.

 

Malfoy nodded.  "So?  What do you have for me?"  He held out an expectant hand.

 

"Oh."  Harry tried to straighten the rumpled, coffee-stained paperwork.  "Er . . . sorry.  It's sort of . . . stained.  Here, let me —"

 

Malfoy dropped his hand with a huff.  He crossed over to his desk and pulled out an ostentatious, feathery quill.  Then he returned to Harry and stuck his hand out again.

 

Harry passed him the wrinkly, stained papers and looked around.  He hadn't really noticed the room before.  Over the fireplace was a Wizard's Table of Potion Bases hanging in an ornate, golden frame on the dark, wooden walls.  Here and there, Malfoy had tossed hobby-related items:  the newspaper on the floor, an expensive broomstick leaning against a chair, an overflowing rubbish bin with even more newspapers.  Notebooks and parchment littered Malfoy's work-space.  A charmed chalkboard had a piece of chalk hovering in mid-air beside it, it's surface covered in formulas and X's and circles.  There was a strange looking potion bottle on the corner of the desk that contained an iridescent, blue liquid.  Behind it sat a framed photo of Malfoy, Snape and Lucius—from about Fourth Year, Harry judged by Malfoy's hair.

 

As Malfoy leaned over his desk to sign the paperwork, Harry gravitated toward the picture for a closer look.  Malfoy looked so young.  He hadn't seemed young at the time, but looking back from Harry's current adult perspective, Malfoy had been nothing more than a fourteen-year-old git.  It almost felt silly that Harry had ever been bothered by him.  He was just a dumb kid.

 

Wanting a closer look, Harry reached to move the bottle out of the way.

 

"What are you doing?" Malfoy snapped, pinning him with a dangerous glare.

 

"I was just looking—"

 

"No, you were touching.  Do. Not. Touch. _Anything._ "

 

Harry pulled his hands back.  "Sorry."

 

"No—you'll _be_ sorry if you fuck anything up in here.  You're lucky I let you in here at all."

 

Harry returned his glare.  "You don' t have to, you know," he said.  "Most employees go to the Ministry and pick up their own paperwork."

 

The words had the effect that Harry hoped.  Malfoy pressed his lips together and looked back down at the papers.  "Just don't touch anything," he muttered. After a moment, he added, "Please."

 

A few moments later, Malfoy handed the papers back to Harry, a flowery “D. Malfoy” scrawled across the bottom of each.  "Will you bring me tea again next time?"

 

"Uh," said Harry, "sure.  Yeah, if you want."  He felt bad now about not trying the biscuits.  "If you make me more biscuits," he said.

 

Malfoy wrinkled his nose and shuddered.  "Those biscuits tasted like Crup food," he said.  "I can't believe you liked them.  Mrs. Goyle made them.  Urgh."

 

"Good thing I didn't eat any, then," said Harry.

 

"Well, why not?" Malfoy looked hurt.

 

"Figured you poisoned them."

 

Malfoy scowled for moment.  "Well," he said, thoughtfully, " _she_ might have.  I do make my own biscuits, you know.  And they're delicious—everyone says so. I just wasn't sure you deserved them."

 

"And now?"

 

Malfoy gave him a hard look.  "We'll see.  Good work with the tea.  Make sure you get it from Terry's again."

 

"That's the only place I go."  Harry gave Malfoy a small wave and headed for the Floo.

 

"Oh—and Potter!" Malfoy stopped him, grabbing his shoulder and quickly letting go. "Bring me something to eat next time, too."

 

“Like what?”

 

“I don’t know,” Malfoy said.  “Something sweet.”

 

“Food?”

 

“Uh, yeah, _food_.” Malfoy shrugged.  “I get caught up when I’m working.  I forget to eat.  I’ll pay you if you’d like.”

 

“No, it’s—fine," said Harry.  “I’ll try to remember.”  He gave a small wave.  "See ya, Malfoy."

 

"Later, Potter,” said Malfoy with a smile. He pulled his goggles back on, cast several protection spells and returned to his work.

 

….

….

….

 

Harry forgot.  He forgot the food.  He realized it as soon as Malfoy pulled off his goggles with an expectant stare.

 

He’d been too busy noticing Nott’s muggle trousers to remember.  Why was Theodore Nott wearing muggle trousers, anyway?  And why in the hell was he wearing them so tight?

 

Harry almost asked him and then decided that it probably wouldn’t go over well, so he gave his routine hello and hurried out with the drinks.

 

But he _forgot_ the sodding food.

 

Then he remembered that he packed his own homemade scones in his work bag to share with Ron and Hannah.  Thinking fast, he turned his back to Malfoy and discreetly shoved a scone into one of the spill-preventative coffee bags from Terry’s.

 

Harry whipped around and held it out for Malfoy.  “Here!”

 

Malfoy gave him a suspicious look, but he took the bag anyway.

 

….

….

….

 

Over the next few weeks, Harry visited Malfoy on Tuesdays and Thursdays, bringing a chai tea and one of his own baked goods—usually blueberry scones, because Malfoy loved them and, secretly, Harry loved that he loved them. Of course, he didn’t dare _tell_ Malfoy he’d baked them himself—if Malfoy knew, he probably wouldn’t eat them.  As it was, Malfoy _raved_ about them and specifically started requesting “Terry’s blueberry scones.”   

 

So, Harry would bring tea and scones.  They’d take a little break from work while Malfoy signed the papers and Harry talked at him, trying to entertain him with bits of information and little pieces of office gossip.  Sometimes Malfoy showed him an interesting article in the news or they’d look up the Quidditch scores and argue about which teams were going to the Cup.  On really nice days, Harry urged Malfoy to get out of the dreary lab and they’d drink their coffee and tea while walking through the Peacock Pen or the gardens before returning to their respective work.  

 

Harry felt inordinately pleased with his success.  Malfoy would still snap at him sometimes, and there were those days when he would be sullen and moody and insulting, but overall this was Harry’s most successful amendment yet.  Still, the whole _friendship_ , if you could call it that—Harry wanted to—always felt tenuous and strained and it was evident that Malfoy was still hiding something.

 

During one of their morning breaks, Harry started to tell Malfoy about how Ron lost his wallet in a pub.  Ron couldn’t remember which pub, so they’d had to retrace their steps through London, idiotically casting “Point Me” charms all over town.  Malfoy always seemed to take immense pleasure in stories like this.

 

"Weasley's such a git," Malfoy scoffed, taking a sip of tea.  His newspaper was spread out over his lap as he checked the score of the Falmouth-Puddlemere game. "He used to drive Granger spare.  He was always losing her things and putting everything back in the wrong place.  She'd come to work with all sorts of shite in her bag—coffee mugs and candy wrappers and Quaffles." He snorted.

 

Harry gave him a funny look.  While he now _knew_ that Hermione and Malfoy  worked together, Malfoy never mentioned it before.  Harry was pretty sure it was a banned topic, but . . . since he’d brought it up. . . .  "You worked with Hermione?" he asked, lightly.

Malfoy stopped laughing.  "Oh." He swallowed, his face strange.  "Yes. Once or twice, you know." Malfoy waved his hand.

 

"Oh.  Well, you managed to see her work-bag every day?"  Harry thought this was an innocent enough question.  Apparently he was wrong.

 

"Is it a crime now to be observant?"

 

Malfoy was sending out all sorts of warning signals, but Harry pressed on, ignoring them.  This could be his only chance to find out what had happened. "Did you work in the Department of Mysteries then?  You must have if you saw her bag all the time . . . "

 

"Drop it." Malfoy was beginning to breathe strangely, stretching his back out and holding his shoulders tightly. "Never mind."

 

"It’s just funny she never mentioned you working together.  That's all."

 

"Never mind, Potter."

 

"But, well— that _is_ where you did your research then, right?"

 

"I don't want to talk about it!" Malfoy yelled, suddenly.  He jumped to his feet and started pacing the area by his desk.  " _Fuck_ ," he muttered.  "Shite."  He dropped his head into his hands and started tapping his fingers quickly and methodically against his forehead.

 

"Malfoy?"

 

Malfoy ignored him and scooted to the edge of his work chair, fanning himself and wiping at his face interchangeably.  He flung his sweater onto the floor and took a long drink of water from a glass on his desk.  "I think you should go back to work, Potter," Malfoy said in a tight voice.   A pitcher sat beside the water glass and Malfoy tried to pour another glass, but his hand trembled visibly and water splashed onto the desk.

 

Harry, alarmed, moved toward him.  He knew he’d been a git, pushing him to answer, but . . .  "Are you—what's wrong?"

 

" _Nothing_ ," Malfoy said, his voice edgy.  “It’s just—” He waved a dismissive hand at Harry, resting his forehead in the other.  "It’s nothing. Just go. Just go.  Good _bye_ , Potter.  Go."

 

"Hey—" Without thinking, Harry reached out a concerned hand.  Malfoy scrambled out of the chair, his eyes wide like a hunted animal.

 

"Please. Don't—just go. Now, Potter.  Go."

 

"Malfoy—.”

 

In a second, Malfoy had his wand out and pointed. " _LEAVE._  Please. I'm fine, but you're one move away from a hex.  Just leave, just leave, just leave. Get it? Leave."

 

"Okay, okay."  Harry quickly grabbed his papers and stuffed them messily into the pocket of his Auror Robes.  

 

He entered the Floo, feeling stunned, and landed in the Ministry, his head reeling.  

 

Hermione’s story was starting to make sense.

....

....

....

 

That evening, Harry and his friends  had one of their weekly game nights.  Really, they were an excuse for Ron, Hermione, Harry and George to drink too much butterbeer, order pizza and stuff themselves with biscuits that Harry had made.

 

Ginny and her new boyfriend, Kent, came this time.  He was alright, Harry thought.  Brown hair, sort of a ratty face like Nott’s, but he played Quidditch and Ginny liked him and Harry, for some reason, liked him, too.

 

It could be because he’d raved about Harry’s food.  

 

Still, it was almost disturbing how not-disturbed he was when Ginny and Kent started kissing right in front of him.  Ron looked like he was more upset about it than Harry.  Harry hardly cared.

 

He _should_ have cared.  But he didn’t.  

 

And after a few too many drinks, Harry watched Ginny and Kent, unabashedly.  He found he was thinking about Malfoy again and wondering if Malfoy did those kinds of things with anybody.

 

What kind of a kisser was Malfoy, Harry wondered?  Did he touch other people when he was intimate or did he slap them away like he had Goyle?

 

When Harry became cognizant of the direction of his thoughts, he got up and tossed his half-finished butterbeer in the bin.  He’d obviously had more than enough.

 

….

….

….

 

A very strange invitation arrived for Harry by Owl the next evening.   In messy scrawl were written the words, "Go meet Malfoy for a drink.  Pringles tomorrow at five.  Pretend you didn't know he was there."

 

"What?" Harry frowned.  It was definitely not a note from Malfoy.  And that wasn't George's handwriting.

 

The only person Harry could think of was  . . .  Goyle?

 

There was no way Harry was going to just show up there and ambush Malfoy in some sort Slytherin set-up without at least getting the facts first.  Malfoy was likely to kill him if he started scheming with Goyle.  And why did Goyle want them to meet for a drink, anyway?

 

Harry proceeded to write an awkward Owl to Gregory Goyle.

 

_~~Dear~~ _ _Goyle-_

 

_I'm sure you're the one that wrote me.  What is this about?_

 

_-H Potter_

 

An hour later, a reply Owl arrived.

 

_Potter-_

 

_It's me.  Malfoy keeps on talking about you but he won't ever ask you to do anything on his own.  I'm the only person he ever does anything with.  He's been stuck in a rut.  I know you're working together.  He says he's helping you a lot so I think you owe him.  You are the friendly sort.  He needs to get out of the house._

 

_You always got him riled up.  It’s good for him.  You got him working again, didn't you?_

 

_You don't have to do it, but I know you will because you're decent._

 

_P.S. Don't take it personal if he starts freaking out over rubbish.  He does that._

_…._

_…._

_…._

 

By 5:00 on Friday, Harry managed to put on and remove a tie six times.  He'd changed his sweater twice and considered ironing his jeans. He'd just finished ironing the left leg when he realized that ironed jeans were ridiculous.  Then he applied a wrinkling charm to the leg to fix it, and then a straightening charm to get it to look a little less terrible.

 

 _This wasn’t  a date_ , he had to remind himself.  Malfoy probably wasn’t even like that, even though Harry had his suspicions back at school and—

 

Fuck all if Malfoy wasn’t like that.   _Harry_ wasn’t like that.

 

Sure, he’d drunkenly pulled one off last night to the thought of Malfoy removing his safety goggles, but everyone did that.  Surely.

 

With a sigh—because this was never going to work, anyway—Harry headed over to Diagon Alley.

 

When he arrived at Pringles Pub, in a button-down and half-ironed jeans, his eyes immediately found Malfoy, sitting in the same seat as before, sipping a whiskey and reading the newspaper. His crossed legs bounced quickly up and down.  

 

Transfixed, Harry stared at the movement, watching the toe of Malfoy’s boots gently tap the wooden floor.

 

Malfoy checked his watch and rolled his eyes.

 

Pretending he hadn’t seen him, Harry turned away, casually ordering a pint for himself at the bar.

 

He could _feel_ the exact moment that Malfoy noticed him.  The tension in the room spiked and Harry's thoughtless response was to turn and look directly at him.

 

Malfoy froze, like a deer caught in headlights.

 

"Malfoy?" Harry waved, feigning surprise.  "Hey—fancy running into you here."  He stumbled out of his seat at the bar and moved quickly toward Malfoy's table.

 

Malfoy did not look amused. "Really, Potter?" He stood and began stuffing his newspaper back into his bag.  "Shocked, I'm sure. Had no idea." Malfoy rolled his eyes.

 

"Er—no."

 

"Right."

 

"Er, yeah, I just happened to be here and—"

 

"And Goyle just happened to forget to show?" finished Malfoy.  He paused and crossed his arms, giving Harry a look.  "Honestly.  He's such a moron.  Both of you.  Morons.  Like I wouldn't figure out this ruse in two bloody seconds."

 

The evening was about to end before it began and Harry had spent way too much time getting his jeans perfectly wrinkled for that to happen. "Alright, alright," he confessed.  "Goyle put me up to it."

 

Malfoy glared.

 

"But so what?" continued Harry.  "We can't meet for a drink?"

 

Malfoy stared angrily at the table, fists clenching.  "You could have just asked me."

 

"I'm not a fan of rejection."

 

Shrugging, Malfoy returned to stuffing away his newspaper.

 

"Like I said," Harry continued, "Rejection feels kind of terrible, so I'd appreciate it if you stayed for a drink."

 

Malfoy paused, not taking his hand off his bag.

 

"Please?" said Harry.  "I'm asking you now.  Will you please stay and have a drink with me?  I mean—you're here already, so . . . "

 

"Fine, whatever."  Malfoy sat and shoved his bag over.  "I'll buy the next round."

 

Harry hesitated.

 

"Well, sit down," said Malfoy.  "We need to celebrate.  I believe I've had a breakthrough."

 

Harry frowned.  "Hanging out with new people, you mean?"

 

"No, Potter, you idiot.  With the antidote."  Malfoy shook his head and muttered, "Goyle."

 

"He did say that you don't go out much," confessed Harry, knowing he was treading in dangerous water.

 

Malfoy just looked at him.  "Well, I'm here, aren't I?"

 

"Yeah," said Harry.  "He seems to think you spend too much time at home,” he added.

 

Malfoy leaned back and crossed his arms.  "Yeah, well.  He's probably right."  Taking a sip of his drink, Malfoy continued, "And I can see you aren't going to drop this, Potter, so ask your stupid questions so we can get on with the evening."

 

Harry hadn't expected this and now that Malfoy was giving him a chance to ask, he realized that he didn’t really know what he wanted to say.  "Oh, well.  I mean.  You know, last week in your lab, was sort of . . . it looked like a panic attack, but I don't know.  Maybe you have anxiety, or something.  Ron used to get them—panic attacks—after the war." He shrugged.  "It's no big deal. A lot of people get them. Especially after, you know . . . a war."

 

“You’re comparing me to Weasley?”  It was amazing how Malfoy could make _Weasley_ sound like a swear word.  Harry almost told him to watch his mouth.

 

“Just—it could be panic attacks, from anxiety.”

 

"Thank you for your diagnosis, Healer Potter." Malfoy tapped his fingers against the table.

 

"I could get a pamphlet of symptoms from Saint Mungo’s if you want," Harry offered with a frown.  "I'm sure I saw some there the last time I went."

 

"I don't need a pamphlet," Malfoy replied in a thin voice.  "I know that they're panic attacks.  I've known for years but that doesn't stop them from happening."

 

Harry traced the rim of his glass with his finger. "I'm sure there are treatments—"

 

"They don't work!"  Malfoy closed his eyes.  "I have all the money in the world, don't you think I've tried?" He opened them.  "Nothing works.  And I don't like being zonked out on potions all day, thank you very much. You want to know what works, Potter?  Being left alone.   _That_ works."

 

Harry stirred his drink.  "That must get pretty lonely."

 

Malfoy said nothing for a moment.  Then he shrugged. "I manage."

 

Is this where Malfoy had been the last few years?  Self-isolating to avoid panic attacks?  That was terrible.  That was no way to live.  "But you have Goyle,” Harry pointed out.

 

Malfoy gave a small, caustic laugh.  "I have Goyle."

 

"You go out with him, don’t you?"

 

"Goyle is—.  It helps to have someone on your side," said Malfoy.  "Someone who isn't going to judge you for your past.  Plus, he was there.  For all of it—" he hesitated, fiddling with a cocktail napkin.  "For everything.  He is the only one who stuck by me who—who didn’t leave or die . . . because of it."

 

“Are you talking about the fire?” Harry asked softly.  Malfoy did not respond.  “Crabbe?" Harry chanced.

 

Malfoy gripped the table tightly.  "Stop yourself there, Potter."

 

"I was there, too, you know."

 

"I mean it, Potter." His voice was strained.

 

"I still have nightmares."

 

Malfoy hesitated. "You do?"

 

"Yup," he said.  "I won't even keep candles in the house."

 

"Neither will I!" Malfoy sat up straighter.  "It drives Mother spare. Seriously—before bed I cast a Summoning Charm and Vanish whatever candles I find.  There haven't been any in a while. I think she's finally stopped bothering."

 

Harry laughed.  "I actually hate taking the Floo now," he admitted.

 

"Then why do you keep taking it to my lab!" Malfoy almost shouted.  Harry blinked in surprise.  "I can't _stand_ having that bloody thing lit, you know. Every fucking Tuesday and Thursday.  Just Apparate next time."

 

"Well, you told me to Floo . . . "

 

"Because that's what you're supposed to do. I _hate_ casting all those fire protection charms, it’s so tedious," Malfoy continued, waving his hands around.  "You can't keep the Floo ones on a stasis because you've got people coming in and out of them.  With my cauldron I don't mind so much, but . . . " He slowed down and cleared his throat.  "Sorry."

 

"For what?" Harry frowned.  He was just beginning to have fun.  He also thought he was beginning to grasp the scope of Malfoy’s problems and “daunting” wasn’t even close to being a strong enough word. Malfoy’s fear of fire was understandable, but Harry _knew_ that whatever he experienced around fire, Malfoy suffered ten-fold.  And that was just the tip of the iceberg.  Malfoy clearly needed serious, professional help and probably years of therapy.  It was far more than Harry was equipped to handle.

 

Malfoy shrugged, looking embarrassed.

 

Though, perhaps there was _something_ Harry could do.  "How about that second drink?" he suggested.

 

Malfoy responded with an eager nod.

 

….

….

….

 

Malfoy tended to drink a lot, Harry noticed, and quickly.  He wasn't exactly drunk; Harry just found it a little worrisome.  When he drank, Malfoy became more talkative and crass and laughed a lot more. Harry figured if his anxiety was as bad as it sounded, it probably _did_ take copious amounts of alcohol to feel functional in public.  Still, Harry wished Malfoy could just relax and enjoy the company.  Maybe next time he ought to ask Malfoy to do something that didn't involve drinking.  Dinner, perhaps.

 

Harry felt giddy at the thought of “next time.” He truly enjoyed spending time with Malfoy, finding that he counted the days between visits.  He’d get up early to bake on Tuesdays and Thursdays so his scones would be fresh.  A part of him sort of hoped that the antidote didn’t work because he was sure once it did Malfoy would go back into hiding and Harry would probably never see him again.

 

Malfoy was leaned against the bar, settling the tab and laughing at something the bartender was saying.  He turned to Harry when he was finished and gave him a curious look.  "You know something? This was _fun_ , Potter," he said with overwhelming sincerity.  "I had a shockingly good time."

 

"So did I," said Harry, slightly taken aback.  A warm feeling spread throughout him.  "Well, I’m not shocked about it, really, but—"

 

"So, thank you.  You and that arsehole, Goyle.” Malfoy flicked him in the arm and Harry blinked.  “For being dickheads and tricking me.   You fucking arseholes." He laughed and smacked a hand against the bar.  "Unbelievable."

 

"Hey—um, do you want to get dinner or something?" Harry asked, the warm feeling spreading to his cheeks and toes.

 

"Dinner!” Malfoy looked offended at the very idea. “It's ten o' _clock_ , Potter and we just ate about a thousand chips.  God!  I'm ready to climb into my bed, aren't you?"

 

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Um . . . "

 

Malfoy frowned and rushed on, looking uncomfortable. "Shut up, Potter. You know what I meant.” His already ruddy cheeks blushed further.  “Don't be a twat. ”

 

Harry laughed, wondering why he'd drawn attention to Malfoy's accidental innuendo at all and finding that he strangely enjoyed his discomfort.  "I meant this weekend.  Let's get dinner somewhere, on Friday or something."

 

"Oh.  Yeah, okay," Malfoy said easily. "You can pay. Seven o'clock."

 

"Alright, Friday at seven.  It's a date."

 

Harry had _not_ just said that.

 

He saw the barest hint of hesitation in Malfoy and cringed.

 

What was he doing, anyway?  Harry was about to blunder on to make it sound less . . . insane, but Malfoy quickly relaxed, giving Harry a smile and a nod before turning to leave.

 

"Guess I should probably take the Knight Bus," Malfoy muttered when they were outside.  He stumbled once coming off of the steps of the Pub and must have re-considered Apparating.  "God, I fucking _hate_ the Knight Bus,” he moaned, giving Harry a pointed look.

 

"I suppose I could Side-Along—”

 

"If you insist."  Malfoy sounded disinterested, but had already latched onto Harry's arm.  Harry grinned, wrapped an arm around Malfoy’s lower back—he felt thin and solid—and Apparated them back to the Manor.

When they landed, Malfoy brushed off his cloak with exaggerated care.  He smiled widely at Harry and patted his shoulder twice.  "Why, thank you, Potter."

 

"Thanks for staying,” replied Harry.  The room was rather hot, he noted, tugging open the clasp on his cloak.

 

Malfoy shrugged and yawned.  "Well, I _was_ already there."  He plopped down onto one of the wingback chairs in his lab and started tugging at his shoelaces.  "And besides. I'd _never_ reject _you._ "

 

The remark was laced with all sorts of hidden meanings.  The implication that Harry probably _had_ rejected _him_ when they were kids.  The fact that Malfoy hadn't rejected him tonight . . .

 

Slowly, Malfoy raised his head and smirked, his eyes hooded and bright.  "Anyway. Goodnight, Potter."

 

"Night, Malfoy."

 

….

….

….

 

“I think you can close the case on Malfoy now.”

 

Harry had swung by Ron’s office before their weekly Auror meeting and was sitting in his usual spot on Hannah Abbott’s desk, helping himself to the box of biscuits she had stupidly left out.  He had with him a file on Potion X containing updates and notes from Malfoy that he was planning to present at the meeting.  “What case?”

 

“You know,” Ron grabbed one of Hannah’s biscuits and took a bite, “the Slytherin charity case thing you’ve been doing.”

 

Harry bristled.  “He’s not a charity case.”

 

“You remember,” said Ron. “Being nice to them to please Hermione?”

 

“I wasn’t doing it to please Hermione!” Harry objected.

 

“Then—”

 

“It was to help . . . build bridges,” he stuttered.  “And for forgiveness.” It suddenly occurred to Harry that his relationship with Malfoy had nothing to do with building bridges.  And he knew in his heart that he had forgiven Malfoy a long time ago—probably as far back as seventh year, when he’d witnessed Voldemort forcing Malfoy to torture Rowle.

 

If he were to be perfectly honest, Harry knew from the start when he approached Malfoy at the Ministry function that he wasn’t just looking for friendly coffee-shop hellos. He wanted to know _everything about him_.  

 

Merlin—he always had. And apparently still did.  

 

In sixth year there had been a good reason for it.  But there wasn’t anymore.  

 

There was really only one reason and it was getting harder to avoid every day.

 

“Mate . . .” Ron said slowly, “I’d say you did your part.”

 

Harry frowned.  

 

Ron sighed.  “Look.  I heard from Hannah who heard from—I don’t know, Padma or Parvati—that Pansy said that Goyle said that you’re taking Malfoy out to dinner?”

 

Harry just stared at him.  “Huh?”

 

“You’re taking Malfoy out to dinner?” Ron repeated.  “To _dinner_?”

 

“Er . . . yeah . . . so?”

 

Ron shook his head, looking skyward.  “Harry,  you do realize what that sounds like?”

 

Harry shrugged, uncomfortably.  He _did_ realize it. Realized it the moment he had said it.   But no one else was supposed to think that.  It was just casual.  It _could be_ casual.  People went to dinner all the time.

 

Did Malfoy think it was a date, then?  Well, Harry _had_ said it, hadn’t he? But he was joking, sort of.  Is that why Malfoy told Goyle who told Parkinson who told one of the Patil twins who told Abbott who told Ron?

 

Oh, God.  This was really happening.

 

He’d asked Malfoy out on a date.

 

“Harry!”

 

“What!”  Harry looked up.  “Sorry, what?”

 

“It’s . . . “ Ron seemed to consider something for a moment.  Then he shook his head.  “You know what? It’s nothing. It’s fine.”

 

Harry was starting to panic. “What’s fine?” He brushed biscuit crumbs off his lap and onto Hannah’s files.

 

“Everything.”  Ron stood up and gathered his items for the meeting.  “It’s all fine.”  

 

“I’m not . . .” Harry began, but he stopped himself, still not ready to admit anything out loud.

 

Ron gave him a knowing look.  “Mm hmm . . . no, right.  Of course not.”  He nodded.  “But . . . if you were?”

 

“I’m not.  I’m not _anything_. I—honestly—I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore.”  

 

Ron shrugged.  He turned the door handle, then paused.  “Only—”

 

“What?” Harry said, exasperated.

 

“It’d be fine.  That’s all I’m saying.”  

 

Harry pressed his lips together.  Finally, he nodded, unable to meet his friend’s eyes. “Okay.  Great.  Can we go now?”

 

Ron nodded and started reaching for the door before making a face.  “But, _yugh_ , Malfoy?”

 

“RON! GO!”

 

“I mean, I won’t say anything about it in the meeting or anything,” Ron insisted.  “I won’t say anything at all.  I won’t!  Not even to Hermione.”

 

“Well that’s good,” Harry grit, “because there isn’t anything to say.”

 

Ron looked doubtful as they made their way into the hall.  He lowered his voice, marginally.  “Yeah, if you say so.”

 

“I do.”

 

They walked in silence, Harry’s head spinning.

 

“I mean,” whispered Ron, “would you care if I did tell Hermione?  I won’t if you don’t want me to, but she’s been on about this for years.”

 

Harry stared at him.  “What?”

 

“I mean, we talked about it before.  Don’t look at me like that—she’s my girlfriend!”  Ron shrank under Harry’s glare.  “And, anyway, I thought she was joking about the Malfoy thing—”

 

“Malfoy thing?” Harry said faintly.

 

Ron waved his hand.  “Sixth year, you following him everywhere.  I mean, come _on_.  I think even _Snape_ was worried, right? Ha-ha.”  

 

Harry did not return Ron’s laughter.

 

“Anyway,” Ron looked abashed, “Can I tell her?”

 

“Tell her whatever you want, Ron.  This conversation is finished.”

 

Ron nodded in relief.  “Thanks.  You know I tell her everything.  She’s like an extension of me, but, you know, smarter.  And prettier.  Sort of mean.  But I won’t tell anyone else. Not even Hannah—”

 

“Ron.  Stop talking.”

 

….

….

….

 

So, Ron clearly thought it was a date.  And Hermione had sent a congratulatory Owl.  But Harry honestly didn’t know.  And he didn’t really care, either.  He was both anticipating and dreading Friday night in equal parts and the sheer relief of it _not_ being a date would probably be enough to offset any potential disappointment.

 

Of course, if it was a date . . . would Malfoy ever make a move?  Would Harry?

 

His cheeks flamed at the very _thought_ of things taking a physical or romantic turn.  He’d barely even considered doing things with a bloke—except for the goggles thing and imaginary wank stuff with Quidditch players and the like, but the only real experience Harry had to draw from was with Ginny—and that had been a disaster.  

 

Even if Malfoy thought Harry had asked him out, it didn’t necessarily mean he was like that, anyway.  And, for Merlin’s sakes, the man was just barely past hating Harry’s guts.  It was possible that he still did.  

 

This whole thing was ridiculous.

 

It wasn’t a sodding date.  

 

It couldn’t be because there was no way Harry could survive the week with a level head if it was.

 

It wasn’t a date.

 

….

….

….

 

On Thursday night, just as Harry was climbing into bed, a tapping on his bedroom window startled him.

 

Harry opened it.  A handsome, tawny owl soared into his room, circled his bed twice and then land on his pillow with something akin to a bow. Smirking, because he just _knew_ whose owl it was, Harry untied the letter from the bird’s leg, ignoring the pounding of his heart.

 

_Potter!_

 

_I did it!_

 

_I’ll tell you more tomorrow, but right now I have to keep running trials because it still needs some modifications._

 

_But I did it!  Of course I did.  Now you’ll have to organise a parade._

 

_If you were serious about dinner, just stop here beforehand.  I might get caught up in work and lose track of time.  I set five alarms, but better to be safe._

 

_If you weren’t serious, it’s fine.  I have work to do._

 

_Tell me either way.  My schedule is very tight._

 

_— D. Malfoy_

 

Grinning, Harry reread the letter twice, then pulled parchment and a quill from his bedside table.

 

_Malfoy,_

 

_Fantastic news!  I never doubted it._

 

_Still planning on dinner, so I’ll stop by at seven._

 

_Get some sleep—Healers recommend eight hours a night._

 

_—H.P._

 

….

….

….

 

Harry smoothed down his useless hair with the dregs of a five-year-old bottle of Sleakeasy’s that had once belonged to Ginny.  Breathing out the last of his jitters, Harry tried to focus on the bread and butter that he would soon be eating at Alexander’s.  It was easier to think about bread and butter.  Bread and butter couldn’t potentially be his ruination.

 

After another minute of deliberation, Harry Apparated straight into Malfoy’s lab at the Manor.

 

The sickening pull of Apparation whirled with the nervous butterflies in his stomach and for one horrifying moment Harry was sure he would vomit.  But then he opened his eyes and saw the familiar sight of Malfoy in his work goggles, leaned over his desk and scribbling something onto parchment.

 

Malfoy looked up with a grin. “I did it, Potter!”

 

Harry returned his smile and the butterflies picked up speed.  “You did it.  That’s awesome, Malfoy.”

 

Malfoy nodded enthusiastically as he pulled the goggles over his hair and tossed them aside.

 

Harry inhaled sharply.

 

"But,” Malfoy continued, shaking his hair and combing it with his fingers. He looked neat and posh, dressed in a thin, blue sweater and trousers, except for his forehead and hair which glistened with perspiration, making him look a bit mad.  “But.  Yes, I _did_ do it, I did. But I think the antidote didn't work _all_ the way," Malfoy said with a small laugh.  "But it's okay.  I think I'm okay.  It doesn't matter."

 

"Erm—" Harry paused.  "You _think_ you’re okay?"

 

"Pfft," Malfoy waved a dismissive hand and laughed.  "Yes.  Please, Potter.  I'm fine."

 

"Um,” Harry was beginning to feel a creeping sense of dread.  “Were you, by chance, testing it on _yourself?”_

 

Malfoy gave him a withering look.  “Well, who was I supposed to test it on—Mother?”

 

Harry shut his eyes. “Are you serious?”

 

“I am a professional.  See how you forget?”  Malfoy clicked his disapproval. “Anyway, I am _fine_.  We should go.”

 

“O-kay . . . "

 

"But I will say this," Malfoy continued.  "I _can_ see how it would incapacitate.  And I think it'd be really good for confessions, too.  Aurors can probably get them on the spot.  Because,” he gestured to himself, “you don't care. When you're on it.  About anything.  I don't care at _all_." He giggled a bit and collapsed onto the sofa. "I don't care about _anything_."

 

"Er—"

 

"I don't even care that I'm a Death Eater!" Malfoy exclaimed with a laugh and a shrug. "I don't.  It sounds ridiculous, I know.  I always did and now—all of a sudden—I don't. Do. Not. Care. It's liberating."

 

Harry’s earlier nausea had turned into a sick sort of disappointment. "Malfoy . . . "

 

"Potter." Malfoy stared up at him from the sofa, a considering look on his face. "Potter.  You know, I don't even care that I've _always_ liked you."

 

Harry froze.  

 

"Harry Potter." Malfoy laughed again. “Ridiculous.”

 

"Malfoy—maybe you should—"

 

"I have. _I have_.  I know you don't believe me but it's true. Of course it’s true." Malfoy clamored to his feet and began pulling on his cloak and fixing his hair in the mirror. "I've always liked you.  Well, I mean, I _hated_ you of course, you're a fucking idiot, but, you know.  I never could have said it otherwise. I just wanted you to like me."

 

Malfoy—the real Malfoy—was going to be sick when he remembered this.  It was not okay for Harry to be witnessing it.  Every second in Malfoy's presence was a betrayal of their tentative trust, despite the fact that Harry’s heart was pounding and he was dying to hear what the man had to say.

 

"Listen," Harry said, quickly.  He grabbed onto Malfoy’s shoulders in an attempt to stop him from talking.  Malfoy swung around with a grin.  For once, he was looking deeply and directly into Harry's eyes. It was disconcerting after weeks of terrified, darting glances.  

 

"What?" Malfoy asked.

 

"Let's do this—dinner—another time."

 

Malfoy pulled back, looking horrified.  "No.  No.  That's not fair! I'm ready for it.  I’m ready _now_.”  He stomped his foot and yanked out of Harry’s grasp.  “No. You don't understand.  Merlin! I have done _nothing_ but _worry_ since you asked me.  Did he mean it, did I imagine it, why in the _hell_ would Potter ask me to dinner? And then you didn’t Owl me back for five whole minutes. No. You don't get to do that to me again.  Don't drag this out.  I mean—it was really horrible. I almost went to France! I packed a bag and everything. You're horrible!"

 

Harry glanced at him warily. "Look, clearly you're still feeling some of the potion's effects.  I just don't want you to say something you're going to regret."

 

"But I won't," Malfoy insisted, his eyes bright.  "I won't regret anything I've said.  I told you.  I. Don't. Care. And it's brilliant.  It's so brilliant." He made a sound like a sob.

 

"I know and—and that’s great . . . but I do care," Harry said, frustrated.  "Let's just do this tomorrow, okay? Please? We'll wait one more day.  It’s just a couple of hours, really.  Send me an Owl later when, you know . . . "  Harry shook his head.  "If you still want."

 

Malfoy looked angry now.  "Well, okay."

 

"I just—"

 

"It's fine.  Whatever, Potter.  You don't want to see me.  Fine."

 

"It's not—"

 

"I said it's _fine._ I think I'll leave now."

 

Harry froze.  “Wh-what? And go where? But—It’s your house! And you probably shouldn't Apparate—"

 

But, with a loud crack, Malfoy was gone.

 

….

….

….

 

That night Harry did the worrying.

 

He worried that Malfoy hadn't ever Apparated home and was instead out getting into trouble, and running his big mouth.

 

He worried that Malfoy was never going to turn up for another dinner with him again.

 

He worried that Malfoy would hate him, that he'd be humiliated by his confession, that he'd sink deeper into the anxiety that was already claiming such a large part of him.

 

Harry wished he could just say the magic word and _fix_ him or something.  The Malfoy from Hogwarts would have eagerly looked forward to a meeting with Harry.  He would have plotted and planned and schemed how best to embarrass him.

 

Perhaps he should goad Malfoy into seeking revenge, Harry thought bitterly.  But, no.  Even that Malfoy was gone.  And likely would stay gone.  Which, really, was probably a good thing, considering he’d been a huge arsehole.

 

What had happened to Malfoy, then, to trigger all of this?  Because—according to Hermione, anyway—there were a few years in between the War and the Ministry incident in which Malfoy seemed to be shaping up into a decent human being.  

 

It must have been something to do with the Prophecies.  That was when it had all started.  Malfoy couldn’t even _think_ about the Department of Mysteries without going into a tizzy.

 

But he’d destroyed everything.  Hadn’t he?

 

Some niggling thought in the back of Harry’s mind kept bringing him back to Malfoy’s lab.  And he kept remembering how Malfoy wouldn’t let him touch anything.  And even though that was a pretty normal request, there was just _something_ about it . . .

 

Harry was suddenly sure there was something in his lab.

 

….

….

….

 

Saturday dawned miserably early and Harry dawned right along with it, having spent the previous seven hours staring at the ceiling over his bed.  He _knew_ he should wait for Malfoy to Owl him, since he’d said as much yesterday.  But Harry also knew that it was _never going to happen_. And if there was any chance of dinner happening tonight—or ever—it was on Harry.

 

So, Harry scribbled out words that had been dancing around his mind all night in various combinations and tried to get them to lay out sensibly before him.  He figured that as long as the message contained, “sorry,” “it’s all fine,” “let’s still get dinner tonight,” and “I hope you’ve not been abducted and interrogated,” then Harry was pretty sure he had a shot.

 

_Hi Malfoy,_

 

_Still looking forward to dinner and hearing about your progress._

 

_Alexander’s, 7:00._

 

_Home of London’s Premiere Bread and Butter Appetizer._

 

_You don’t want to miss this, Malfoy, believe me._

 

_We can talk about yesterday if you want or I can be completely honest and tell you that I have a pretty nasty case of Nargles at the moment and I missed entirely every word that was said._

 

_Owl me back.  Tell me you’re coming._

 

Harry tried to go about busying his day while he waited for Malfoy’s return Owl which, five hours later, still hadn’t shown.  Groceries were bought, laundry was done; he’d even managed to burn a batch of chocolate chip biscuits.

 

Something must have happened to Malfoy.  He’d splinched himself, probably, Apparating on that stupid potion.  Harry was burning a second batch of chocolate chips when that ridiculous owl came waltzing through the window, circling through the billowing smoke and sashaying a note right up to Harry’s nose.

 

With trepidation, Harry unravelled the note.

 

_Potter,_

 

_~~I regret to inform you that I am unable to~~ _

 

_7’s good._

 

_— ~~Gr~~_

_~~— Draco Willimus Malfoy~~ _

 

Malfoy’s owl made a squawking sound and nipped at him before flying urgently around the smoky stove.

 

“Shite.” Using a dish towel as an oven mitt, Harry pulled the forgotten, burning biscuits out of the oven and threw them in the sink, flooding them with water.

 

With a sinking heart, Harry scrutinized the note for a few more minutes before deciding that if Goyle’s stupid plan worked once,  just maybe this one was stupid enough to work, too.

 

….

….

….

 

Bread and butter was an amazing thing, Harry thought as he started in on the second basket.  First of all, it was free.  Secondly, it was fresh, warm, doughy and delicious. And third, there was a variety of amazing crusts out there to make every bread experience unique.  But the bread at Alexander’s Bistro was, hands down, the best.  Despite the fact that Harry was sitting alone by the window, working his way through his second free basket, and Malfoy was sixteen minutes late, something in the butter reassured Harry that everything was going to be alright.  Eventually.  After one more slice.

 

Harry watched with detached amusement as Goyle and Malfoy appeared, disappeared and reappeared on the street outside of the restaurant, several times.  This was Goyle's big plan?  Keep Side-Alonging Malfoy to the restaurant?

After their fourth appearance in which Malfoy shouted at Goyle and shoved the larger man ineffectually, Harry put his bread down and went to the door.

 

"No!" Malfoy was saying.  "Stop it! Stop it!"

 

"You’re . .  . being . . .  rude.”  Goyle was attempting to force a struggling Malfoy to stand still.  “Imagine what your mother would say, standing up Potter of all people."

 

"It isn't standing up if I never agreed to it in the first place—Get off!”

 

Harry cleared his throat, awkwardly.  The two slowed their movements and looked over.  "Er—hey."

 

"Hey!"  Goyle flashed him a huge and rather frightening smile.  Malfoy squeezed his eyes together and turned away.  "He made it!" Goyle pointed at him.

 

Goyle received a quick kick in the shin from Malfoy, but other than that, the blonde was still.

 

"Um."  Harry gestured lamely to the restaurant.  "The bread’s getting . . . stale.”

 

Without looking at either of them, Malfoy shoved past Goyle and stomped into the restaurant.  Harry rushed after him to show him to their table.

 

Grand gestures of holding seats and romantic conversation quickly evaded him.  This was not going to be an easy night, Harry reckoned.

 

"So," Harry finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Malfoy had declined the bread—probably just to be a git—and sat, scowling, with his head propped moodily on one fist.  "Er.  Where'd you end up last night?"

 

"Thought you had Nargles," Malfoy muttered.

 

Harry shrugged.  "Goyle's?" he guessed.

 

"Yeah."

 

"Have you done any more work on the antidote?"

 

He shook his head.

 

"Are you going to?" Harry asked before he could think better of it.

 

Malfoy pinned him with a stare.  "What do you think?"

 

"You better finish it."

 

A pause.  "Or?"

 

"What do you mean, 'or?'  You'd better finish it."

 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow.  "And what if I don't?"

 

"I'd come over there and make you finish it."  Harry gave him a hard look.  "You said you were close.  You're not going to just give up again, not like last time . . . " His mouth snapped shut.

 

Malfoy sat up very straight.  "Not like _what?_ "

 

"Erm.  Nothing.  I don't know.  Have you tried the bread?"  Harry held a piece of buttered bread up to Malfoy who reached out and knocked it away.  It rolled off the table and onto the floor.

 

"I don't want any fucking bread, Potter," he hissed.  "What were you just saying?"

 

"Nothing!"

 

"You said, _not like last time_. What ‘last time?’  What were you talking about?"

 

Harry thought fast.  "Transfiguration Class!  Back at Hogwarts.  When, you didn't finish . . . that thing for McGonagall."

 

"That Mudblood bitch told you everything, didn't she!"

 

"Don't talk about her like that," Harry warned.  "I mean it, Malfoy."

 

"Who else knows?"  Malfoy asked desperately, his voice cracking.  "I _knew_ you knew.  It was supposed to be confidential.  Everyone knows, I’ll bet—probably known for years!" He swallowed hard, clenching his hands and blinking his eyes rapidly. "God, I must be the laughingstock of town.  And here I've been, walking around in public like a fucking idiot while everyone is talking about me—saying what a pathetic psychopath Draco Malfoy turned out to be!" He dropped his head into his hands and tapped his fingers on his forehead.

 

"Shh, keep your voice down!"  Harry hissed, afraid Malfoy was gearing up for another panic attack. "Nobody knows!  She only _just_ told me.”  He mentally apologized to Hermione.  Malfoy clearly didn’t believe his Transfiguration story, anyway.  “Don't you think if people knew, it would have been in the Prophet?  They love stuff like that."

 

Malfoy opened his mouth as if to shout back and then closed it, seeming to consider Harry's words.  "I guess."  Then: “Aren’t you going to order any wine?”

 

Harry hadn’t wanted to, originally, but in light of recent events, perhaps it was a good idea.  “Sure, yeah, of course.”

 

Malfoy barely looked at the menu before pointing out the most expensive bottle.

 

"Uh, how about we go with the," Harry skimmed his finger to the bottom of the menu where the two-Galleon bottles were listed in microscopic print, "the . . . Roth-er-lins Cabernet? Hmm? That one sounds good."

 

" _Rosalinds_?" Malfoy made a face. "Ew. Whatever. Fine."

....

....

....

 

A half an hour and three glasses of wine later—well, one for Harry—found Malfoy a bit more relaxed. He still wouldn't look Harry in the eye, seeming flushed and unsteady.  Harry supposed it was nerves, but it may have been the wine.

 

"I know you won’t try the bread—bad choice, by the way—but their biscuits are amazing," Harry said, picking at the remains of his pasta.

 

"Mine are better," said Malfoy.

 

"You know, mine aren't bad, either."

 

Malfoy looked up and smirked, finally making eye contact. "I know.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes.  “Do you think I’m stupid, Potter?”  He topped off his glass of wine, finishing the bottle.

 

“Er—”

 

“Unless you’ve taken up the morning shift at Terry’s Cafe and forgot to mention it.”

 

Harry spluttered, feeling himself grow hot.  Malfoy knew?  And he never said anything?  Harry blushed, thinking about all the times Malfoy raved about Terry’s sweets in front of him . . . he felt like such an idiot.  Maybe he thought just the biscuits had been Harry’s and not everything.

 

“Were you baking just for me?” Malfoy put a hand on his heart.

 

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

 

“I’m serious.  But I do like the scones better.”

 

Harry scowled.  “The scones aren’t from Terry’s, either, you know.”

 

Malfoy gave him a disbelieving look.  “I know.”

 

“How?”  

 

Malfoy set the wine bottle down with a heavy clunk.  “Seriously? You pull them out of tupperware, Potter.  Every single time.”  He shook his head.  “I thought you were joking at first because it was so ridiculous.  Potter, you hide them in a Terry’s bag _right in front of me_.  How would I ever not see that?”

 

Harry just assumed the goggles obscured his vision. “Why did you play along?”

 

“I thought it was funny.”

 

“Oh.  I thought you actually liked them."  Harry hated the disappointment in his voice.

 

Malfoy gave him a careful look.  “I do . . . they’re _really good_ , Potter.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“No, I’m serious!”  Malfoy finished his glass, picked up the empty bottle and frowned when nothing poured out.  He continued to talk, gesturing with the bottle as he spoke.  “They are bakery quality.  I’d pay money.  Of course, I don’t because I get them free.  But you ought to sell them.”

 

Harry warmed. “I’ve thought about it.  I even wanted to buy the old Florean Fortescue’s,” he admitted, before remembering who he was talking to.  “They’re not that good, though.”

 

“Yes, Potter, they _are_ that good.  If your other stuff is halfway decent, you’ve got a business.” Malfoy paused and gestured at the bottle in his hand.  “Shall we get another?”

 

“Erm—” Harry looked at his half-finished first glass.  “I’m still on my first.”

 

“Oh.”  Malfoy blushed, embarrassed.  “Never mind,” he rushed on.  “Maybe I’ll . . . get a glass.  Maybe I’ll just get a glass.”

 

Harry looked down at his plate and didn’t say anything.

 

“What?” Malfoy snapped.  “You’re judging me, I can tell.”

 

“I’m . . . not,” Harry said slowly.  “I’m not trying to.  It just seems like every time we go anywhere, we’re drinking.”

 

“So?”  Malfoy traced his finger along the tablecloth.  Then he started tapping.  “We’re both adults.”

 

“I know.”  Harry felt like an arse and he really didn’t want to say anything to upset him.  “I just wanted to get to know _you_.  You know?”

 

There was a slight pause before Malfoy looked hurt and insisted, “You _are._ ”

 

Shrugging, Harry gestured to Malfoy’s glass. “It’s fine.  Get another, if you’d like.”

 

Malfoy scowled.  “Trust me, Potter.  It’s better this way.  You wouldn’t want to see me sober tonight.”  Then he added, under his breath, “Believe me.”

 

“It’s really fine,” Harry said with more sincerity, gesturing with his hands.  “I shouldn’t have said anything.  Seriously.  That was rude of me.”

 

“Yes, it was,” Malfoy agreed, emphatically.  “But,” he drawled, “I suppose you could have a point.  I do, probably, you know,” he waved his hand around, loosely, “drink, or whatever, too much sometimes. It’s—I just get nervous.  And I seriously dread— _dread—_ dread being out in public.” He huffed. “I hate it.”

 

“But you do it anyways,” said Harry.  “And you seem to manage fine most of the time.”

 

“No. You have _no_ idea what it’s like.”  Malfoy motioned to the waitress and ordered a single glass of wine—his fifth, Harry noted.  “No idea what’s actually going on—” He tapped his head, “in here.  Not a clue.”

 

“Tell me.”

 

“You’d be terrified, Potter.  It’s chaos,” said Malfoy.  “That’s all.  Just utter chaos.  Sometimes it’s as if I’m a prisoner in my own head.  To—thoughts.  That I’m not even sure are mine.  But I can’t stop them.  And I know they’re utterly ridiculous, but they just scream at me to listen _all the time_ and the only way to stop them is, well, to listen.  Do what they say.  And it gets a little better, for a time, and then it gets worse, but—Oh Merlin.” He rubbed his head.  “I apologize, I am making an utter fool of myself right now.  I know it.”

 

“No, you aren’t,” Harry insisted, glad that Malfoy was being honest with him for once.

 

“I sound like a fucking nutter,” Malfoy snapped.  “I can hear myself, you know.”  He drank deeply from his glass and then continued.  “It’s not like I hear voices in my head or anything, I’m not completely insane.”

 

“You mean, like me?”

 

“I just—” Malfoy gave him a funny look.  “What?”

 

“Like how I used to hear voices in my head? And you used to laugh at me?”  Harry sipped his own wine with a false calm and gestured vaguely.  “Voldemort,” he said, as if that explained it all.

 

“Oh.”  Malfoy flinched, then looked ashamed.  “Right.  I’m . . . sorry.  I forgot.  I know I used to,” he pressed his lips together and then looked down, “say things, at school.  I just—I didn’t know—I didn’t mean—”

 

“It’s okay,” Harry said, because he felt he was supposed to.

 

“No, it actually isn’t.” Malfoy glared.  “It actually really fucking isn’t.”

 

“No, I guess not.”  Harry gave him a careful look.  “But it doesn’t matter any more.  It’s all in the past.”

 

“You can’t just make the past go away, Potter.  The past is _real_.  Those . . . things, people like me have done that you are trying to move past or pretend like they don’t matter anymore—well, they _do_ matter, they’ll _always_ matter.  Our lives are laid out for us before we’re even born.  This linear track.”  He gestured a line with his hand. “And all of it—beginning to end—is _who you are._ The horrible things I’ve done will always be a part of me.  The thoughts I had back then were real.  The hatred I felt was real and I _believe_ in Karma now, I do.”  His hands shook slightly and he squeezed them into fists. “I’ve poisoned the rest of my life doing terrible, unspeakable things, Potter.  You don’t know the half of it.  I _hurt_ people.  Killed them.  And now I’ll pay for my mistakes.  My shitty destiny.”

 

Harry wanted to shake Malfoy.  “That is complete bullshit.  I don’t buy into that at all.  You control your own destiny.  There isn’t some cosmic force out there, hell bent on making you suffer just because of some mistakes you made as a stupid kid.”

 

“How the hell would _you_ know?” hissed Malfoy. “There are _so_ and I know it for a fact.”

 

Harry suspected Malfoy was talking about the Prophecy now.  “What about Snape? Snape changed.” Harry had made public the truth about Snape in an attempt to clear his name after the war.

 

“Snape didn't change.  And if he did, then he got his throat slit for his troubles, didn't he?"

 

"Well, Dumbledore always said it doesn’t matter how someone is born, it matters what they grow to be."

 

"Dumbledore was a trusting fool," growled Malfoy.

 

“No, he wasn’t.”  Harry’s voice took on an edge.

 

Malfoy looked at him carefully then lowered his head, slightly.  “Sorry.  I just happen to _know_ that he’s wrong about that.”

 

“Prove it,” Harry challenged.

 

Malfoy stared at him for a very long time before finally speaking.  “Fine,” he said.  “I can prove it to you tonight, if you’d like.”

 

“How about after dinner?”

 

He crossed his arms and sneered.  “Perfect.”

 

Harry could tell that Malfoy instantly regretted it, but Harry was going to force him to follow through.  He strongly suspected and hoped that Malfoy would show him a Prophecy.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Malfoy stopped drinking halfway through his seventh glass of wine, and Harry suspected he was trying to hide how drunk he actually was.  He was talkative as hell and hadn’t shut up for the past hour.  When they stood to leave, Malfoy squinted and fumbled with the buttons on his cloak before walking to the door with exaggerated care. He leaned casually against it, waiting for Harry, and finally pushed it with his back to hold it open.

 

“Thanks,” Harry said.

 

“May as well Side-Along,” Malfoy said when they were outside.  “As we’re going to the same place and all.”  Then added under his breath, “I can’t believe I’m going to do this.  I’ve never told anyone—not even Goyle or Mother.”

 

“You don’t have to . . .” Harry said.  “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious.”

 

“You’re always curious.”  Malfoy slurred, planting himself directly in front of Harry.  He poked him in the chest.  “Aren’t you? Too curious for your own good, I’d say.” He smirked.

 

“Probably,” Harry said, his voice embarrassingly breathy.  Malfoy seemed to sober for a moment and quickly shifted away, rubbing his hands together as if he was cold and blowing into them.  Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Er—”

 

“Ready?” Malfoy asked.

 

Harry grasped Malfoy’s elbow, holding on longer than necessary and Apparating them back to the lab.

 

When they arrived, Harry had to pull Malfoy back to keep him from falling.  Once they regained their footing, Harry eyed the room in shock.  Malfoy wasn’t all that organized, but he usually kept things relatively tidy.  

 

Tonight it looked like a tornado had blown through.

 

Newspapers were everywhere, parchment was _everywhere_.  Clothing was strewn about and empty potion bottles littered the floor.  There were chocolate frog wrappers all over one of the armchairs and something sticky-looking had been spilled and left on the hearth.

 

“What the hell happened?” Harry asked, his eyes wide.

 

“Shite,” Malfoy swore.  He must have forgotten he’d ransacked the place when he invited Harry over.  They both pulled their wands out and started tidying the space.  “Stop it,” Malfoy said, when he noticed Harry was cleaning.  “Sit down.” Malfoy cleared the wrappers off the chair and sent them flying toward the overflowing bin by his desk.  

 

Harry took a seat and watched awkwardly as Malfoy clumsily spelled the rest of the room clean.  He looked upset, a deep frown on his forehead as his breathing grew more labored and his movements more nervous.  “Sorry,” he muttered when he was done, kicking one last pair of trousers into a suitcase and spelling it shut.  He collapsed onto the adjoining armchair and stared at the cold fireplace.  An uncomfortable silence ensued in which Malfoy tapped his fingers against his thumbs and Harry crossed and uncrossed his legs.

 

Harry finally gestured to the suitcase.  “France?” he guessed.

 

Malfoy surprised him by tilting his head back and laughing.  Then he sighed and rested his head in his hand, covering his mouth.  “Yes,” came his muffled reply.  He smirked a little and then they both laughed, breaking the tension.

 

“Don’t move to France,” said Harry.

 

“I won’t.” Malfoy shook his head.  “Probably.  Mother would never allow it.  I didn’t feed myself properly last time.  She said.”

 

“You lived in France?”

 

Shutting his eyes, Malfoy leaned back in the chair and sighed heavily.  “Yes.  After the whole,” Malfoy waved his hand haphazardly, “Department of Mysteries thing.  We have a cottage there that’s basically empty.”  He stretched, then opened his eyes and looked at Harry, expectantly.

 

“Well? Aren’t you going to ask?”  Malfoy said.  “About the Prophecy?”

 

The way he said it reminded Harry of Lucius—how he’d extended his hand imperiously, underestimating them all, and expecting Harry to just pass it over.  He shivered.  Malfoy wasn’t his father, he knew.  And this time it was Malfoy showing his Prophecy to Harry.

 

Harry shook away the chill that ran through him.  “Well, what was it that really happened?” he said, still confused.  “You were restoring the Prophecies and then you heard one about you?”

 

Malfoy nodded, looking sick.

 

“How do you know it was about you?”

 

“Because, Potter.” He gave him a withering look.  “If you knew anything at all about Prophecies, you’d know that you can only retrieve your own.”  Crossing his arms, he continued. “You _ought_ to know.  Isn’t that the reason you sent my father to prison in the first place?  He was trying to retrieve your Prophecy?”

 

“Oh, something like that.” Harry scowled. “Or, I dunno, maybe it was for breaking into the Ministry with Death Eaters and trying to murder a bunch of kids.  I can’t seem to recall.”

 

Malfoy glared at him.  “Yes. It never was quite clear.  Anyway,” he continued with a sneer,  “I handled the Prophecies for over a year and never heard any of the other ones.  Then one day, I’m going about my business as usual and the fucking potion I was using starts glowing and talking to me.”

 

“Potion?”

 

“It’s what I used to retrieve the memories.  I bottled them.  The memory of the Prophecy is imprinted on the Potion.”

 

“That’s . . . brilliant, actually”

 

Malfoy stuck his nose in the air.  “I thought so.”

 

Harry pointed to the strange looking blue bottle on Malfoy’s desk.  “That’s it there, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes.” Swallowing hard, Malfoy pushed himself to standing.  He swayed almost imperceptibly, then made his way over to the desk.  “Come here.”

 

Harry rose and followed, stopping shoulder to shoulder with Malfoy.  

 

“Swear you won’t tell anyone.”

 

“I swear.”

 

“Wizard’s promise.”

 

Harry almost laughed.  He hadn’t done a “Wizard’s promise” since second year.  Magically speaking, it was about as strong as a pinky swear.  “You don’t want to do an Unbreakable Vow?”

 

Malfoy gave him a dark look.  “No.  I don’t do those.  If it turns out you’re an untrustworthy blabbermouth, I’ll hex the shite out of you, but I’d rather not have another death on my conscience, if it’s all the same.”

 

Harry raised his hands in the air. “That’s fine by me.”

 

“Good.” Malfoy wrapped his right arm around Harrys and grasped his hand.  Then he whispered, “The fates will ne’er conspire to harm us,  if we never break this promise, but if I ever dare to tell, I shall receive a nasty spell.” He looked at Harry and waited.  “Now you.”

 

“Oh. Okay.”  Feeling silly, Harry repeated the words.

 

Malfoy gave a tight nod, took one last shaking breath, then unstoppered the bottle.

 

A mist rose and an ethereal voice emanated from it.

 

_A wizard will be born, blonde hair and fair-skinned. His name will be known and feared._

 

Malfoy turned away from Harry and the Prophecy as if he couldn’t bear hearing it.  He started playing with a rubber band on the desk.

 

_A symbol of darkness will mark him. Desire for dark power will lead to the death of a great wizard._

 

Harry glanced at Malfoy, who’d made a humming sound.

 

_He will lose the loyalty of a trusted partner.  On the day of his partner’s death, the partner will conjure a great fire.  The dead will rise.  And the partner will die.  And the wizard, too,  shall die by the product of his own darkness, a failure, friendless and alone._

 

His back to still to Harry, Malfoy exhaled shakily.

 

Harry, however, almost laughed with relief.  

 

“Well?” Malfoy’s voice was quiet.  “See? I was right.”

 

Then Harry did laugh.  He couldn’t help it.  Malfoy whipped around and gaped at him.

 

“What?” he demanded, his eyes furious.  “ _What?_ You think this is funny?”

 

“No—”

 

“Crabbe died and it’s my fault.  I’m going to die alone, a miserable failure!  That’s funny to you, is it, Potter?”

 

Harry shook his head and tried to wipe the grin off his face.  “No. _No._ That’s not—can I hear it again?”

 

Scowling, Malfoy stoppered the bottle, then pulled the cork out again.  “So help me Merlin, Potter, if you laugh again—”

 

The voice interrupted and they listened a second time.  When it was finished, Harry was certain he was right.  “It’s not about you,” Harry said. “It’s not your Prophecy.”

 

“Of course it’s my Prophecy!” Malfoy retorted.  He snapped the rubber band against the desk. “Blonde hair?  Fair-skin?  Dark Mark?  The fire?  For fuck’s sake, are you stupid?”  Malfoy slammed his hand down, then sunk down into the desk chair, with a slight sob, covering his face.  “I don’t _want_ to die alone.  I _have_ changed, too, and it doesn’t even matter.  You heard it.  I wanted darkness and I got it.  And it’s going to kill me.”

 

“Malfoy—”

 

“I’m doomed.”

 

“I’m telling you, it isn’t about you.  Not really—”

 

“I can _hear_ it Potter. Who’s fucking Prophecy is it then, do you think?”

 

“It’s Grindelwald’s.”

 

Malfoy paused, then sat up slowly in the chair, uncovering his face.  “Say that again.”

 

“Grindelwald—it’s clearly about Grindelwald.”

 

“Grindelwald?” Bewildered gray eyes stared at Harry.  Then Malfoy unstoppered the bottle a third time and listened.  He looked back at Harry when it was done.  “But—the fire,” he said faintly.

 

“Dumbledore conjured a huge fire the day he died.  He was fighting Inferi—the dead will rise? I was with him.”

 

Malfoy shook his head. “But—the partner?”

 

“They were friends once.  Dumbledore and Grindelwald, before Dumbledore defeated him.  Grindelwald died in Nuremgard—alone and—I guess you can hear it because . . . you played a role in Dumbledore’s death.”  Harry mumbled the end, looking down.

 

Malfoy stared at the desk for a very, very long time.  “Snape killed Dumbledore,” he finally said, his voice cracking slightly.

 

“You disarmed him.”

 

Malfoy whipped his head up and just looked at him, eyes bleary.  

 

“I was there that night,” Harry said.

 

Malfoy shook his head, confused.

 

“On the Tower,” Harry said.  “With Dumbledore.”

 

Defeated, Malfoy closed his eyes.  “Oh.  Obviously.  Of _course_ you were.  Well.  It’s all true about me, anyway.”

 

“It doesn’t have to be—not the part about you dying alone.”

 

“Could be.”

 

“Yeah, could be for anyone, but it isn’t your destiny.”  

 

Harry felt moved to put a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder.  After a moment’s hesitation, he did.  Without seeming to think about it, Malfoy put his hand over Harry’s and patted it lightly.  Then he looked up at him, his face sincere and relieved.  “Thanks.”

 

Harry squeezed his shoulder.  “Welcome.”  Then, “Now, don’t you feel dumb?”

 

Gratitude was quickly replaced with irritation.  Malfoy yanked his hand back and shoved Harry in the chest.  Harry started laughing as Malfoy scowled at him.

 

“Kidding,” said Harry.

 

“No, you’re not.” Malfoy rose unsteadily.  “I _am_ an idiot.  So many years, I’ve thought that . . .” He put a hand to his temple.  “Oh, God. My head is spinning.”

 

“Well, it’s a lot to take in.”

 

“No, I mean—” Malfoy grimaced, swallowing hard.  “I drank a lot of wine.”  He reached a hand out and grasped onto Harry’s upper arm, squeezing his eyes shut. “Shite.”

 

“ _Oh._ ” Harry really hoped Malfoy wasn’t going to vomit _._ “Well, come here. Sit down then.”  Harry steadied Malfoy and dragged him over to his usual armchair.  The bottle and a half of wine in just over an hour must have finally hit him—Malfoy suddenly seemed much drunker than he had before and was looking a bit worse for the wear.

 

“Sorry, ‘m really sorry.”  Malfoy spoke into his hands.  “This doesn’t usually happen.”

 

“Do you have a Sobering Potion or anything?”  Harry asked, looking nervously around the lab for something to help.

 

Malfoy shook his head and groaned.  “I’m gonna be sick,” he slurred.

 

Harry sprang into action, pulling Malfoy out of the armchair and dragging him, stumbling, to the nearest bathroom.  It was a huge, marble room—larger and nicer than Harry’s whole apartment.  Malfoy yanked out of Harry’s grasp and made an urgent, staggering beeline for the toilet.  Dropping to his knees, he took shallow, shuddering breaths. “ _Get out_ ,” he commanded. Harry did, just as he heard the beginning sounds of Malfoy being sick.

 

What a disaster, he thought, sinking to the floor outside of the bathroom and wrapping his arms around his knees.  Two days in a row, the evening was spoiled.  It wasn’t on purpose, he knew.  Harry was just . . . disappointed.  Because he _did_ like Malfoy.  And he really thought Malfoy might feel the same.  Little things—the way he looked at him, or blushed or got too close for too long, made Harry certain that Malfoy had considered things in a romantic sense.  Harry just wanted one of these times to go well, but was afraid that if Malfoy felt embarrassed—which was almost a certainty—that he’d pack up his bags again and head for France.

 

Harry hoped the revelation of the Prophecy would help put Malfoy’s overzealous mind to ease, but he wasn’t naive enough to think this was a permanent solution.  If Malfoy flipped out that badly in the first place, then he couldn’t have been an excellent mindset to begin with.

 

But who was, after the war?  Certainly not Harry.  Or Ron.  Or even Hermione.  They all had something that haunted them—they’d find themselves unhappy in a job or arguing with family . . . or having unnecessary freak-outs and flashbacks and nightmares.

 

They were doing better now.  With time, the horror of the war faded a little.  But they all still had their moments.  Malfoy, it seemed, had a lot of them.

 

From the other side of the door, he heard a toilet flush and the sound of water running.  Then it was quiet.  Harry climbed to his feet.  He hesitated before deciding it was okay to check on Malfoy. Then he heard muffled, choked sobs.

 

“Malfoy?”

 

Nothing.

 

Knocking softly, Harry tried again.  “Hey, Malfoy?”

 

It was quiet again.  Worried that Malfoy had Apparated to Goyle’s or to France, Harry turned the doorknob.  “That’s it, I’m coming in.”

 

Malfoy spun around guiltily at the sink.  His eyes were red and wet, from getting sick or from crying—perhaps both—and his complexion was splotchy and muddled.  

 

“You okay?”

 

“I’m fine.”  He wiped angrily at his face with a hand towel, then tossed it aside.  

 

Harry took a tentative step forward. “Are you sure?”

 

Malfoy sniffed.  “Other than making a complete arse of myself on a date, you mean?”  

 

Harry’s heart sped up. “Um. Date?”

 

Malfoy widened his eyes at his slip up and he ran a distressed hand through his hair.  “Oh, _Christ_ , what is _wrong_ with me?” With a frustrated grunt, he stomped over to sit on the corner of the white, porcelain tub and buried his flaming cheeks in his hands.  “What the _fuck_ is wrong with me?”  His words were muffled by his hands.  “Potter, I think you should leave.  In fact, why in the hell are you still here?”

 

Harry shrugged, sitting down beside Malfoy on the tub, their knees slightly touching.  “Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

 

“I’m not.  Now go.”

 

“Also wanted to make sure you were still going to finish working on Potion X.”

 

Malfoy glared at him blearily through his hands.  “Why do you even care?  It’s not like you want to go on any sodding raids.  I can tell.  You just want to be a baker.”  He let out a derisive snort, then rubbed his eyes.  “Why are you even bothering with me?”

 

“You don’t know what I want.”  Harry returned his glare, then crossed  his arms, feeling childish.  Evidently, Malfoy _did_ have some idea of what he wanted.  Harry just wasn’t quite certain about it.

 

A shudder ran through Malfoy and he wrapped his arms tightly around himself.

 

“Was this really a date?” Harry asked, steeling himself.

 

Malfoy turned his head away.  “You tell me.”

 

“I wasn’t really sure,” Harry admitted.  “I thought about it.  I mean—I hoped—but I wasn’t sure about your . . . you know, interests.  I thought maybe if you wanted it to be . . . then I would want it to be.”

 

Malfoy frowned.  “I mean—you said it, at the pub.  I didn’t know if you were joking, because why would you ever—?” He let out a mirthless laugh and ran a tired hand over his face.  “Well, sorry.  I ruined it. Twice.”  

 

Malfoy shivered again and Harry paused briefly before wrapping a tentative arm around the other’s shoulders.  Malfoy tensed. Then, slowly, Harry could feel him relaxing.

 

“You didn’t ruin anything.”  Harry returned.  “I mean it.  And on the plus side, I’ve got loads of things to tell Ron and Hermione now.”

 

Malfoy gave him an incredulous stare.  

 

“Joking!”

 

“That is not funny at all.”

 

Harry smirked.  He felt a sudden, deep rush of protectiveness for Malfoy.  As he sat there on the tub looking sick and small, all Harry wanted to do was encourage him and see him get better.

 

“You want me to make you tea or something?”

 

Malfoy yawned hugely.  “In the morning?”

 

“I can do it in the morning,” Harry said.  Tomorrow was Saturday, after all.  “As long as you don’t go to France.”

 

“Bring me a dozen scones and I’ll think about staying.”

 

“Done.”

 

….

….

….

 

Harry had brought tea and scones over to Malfoy’s the next morning, but the blonde was not there.  He must have still been asleep, or hiding.  Harry charmed the snack to stay warm and left it on Malfoy’s desk.

 

Disappointed, Harry returned home, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 

….

….

….

 

Later that day, Harry got a visit from Malfoy’s flamboyant owl.

 

_Potter,_

 

_I will be taking temporary respite from my research due to reasons of health.  Please notify the Ministry._

 

_I plan to continue working at a later date, pending Ministry funding and approval._

 

_—D. Malfoy_

 

Harry crumpled the letter and kicked his nightstand, startling the owl.

 

“Oh, _hell no_ , Malfoy.”

 

….

….

….

 

Harry tried Apparating to Malfoy’s lab three times before the painful smack of wards injured both his pride and his left elbow.

 

Flooing left him sooty, dizzy and miserably, nauseatingly on his own damn hearth.

 

Over the next few days, Harry Owled Malfoy a variety of messages:

 

 _I’m not telling Dawlish anything_.

 

_I’ve forged your stupid signature on the documents. ‘D. Malfoy.’  Ha._

 

_Please talk to me._

 

_Owl me back._

 

_Send word with Goyle—tell me you’re okay._

 

_I want to see you._

 

_We need your research._

 

_Don’t do this to yourself._

 

_You’re being a stupid, childish prat._

 

_Are you really sick?  If you are, please tell me!  I’m worried._

 

_I made you scones.  I refuse to send them by Owl.  Undo your wards._

 

_I gave your scones to Ron._

 

He received no response at all.  After a week, Harry received a disappointing letter from Goyle indicating similar treatment.

 

Harry was tempted to fabricate a warrant for Malfoy’s arrest, just to get into the Manor and found himself fantasizing a list of possible crimes.  

 

At game night the following week, Harry told Hermione what happened and she raised her eyebrows in an annoying “I told you so,” kind of way.   Irritated, Harry bragged about hearing Malfoy’s prophecy.  When she begged him to tell her what it said, he took vicious pleasure in telling her it was a secret.

 

When a month had gone by without a word, Harry finally told Dawlish that Malfoy was having health issues.  Dawlish was disappointed, but said there was no rush on the project and that the funding would remain should Malfoy ever want to return, within a reasonable amount of time.

 

Another month found Harry and Ron laying on Harry’s living room floor drinking Firewhisky and playing a half-hearted game of Wizarding Chess.  Harry had since admitted to Ron that _maybe_ he’d had a thing for Malfoy, but that it obviously wasn’t reciprocated and Ron found himself in the uncomfortable weekend position of reassuring Harry that there were surely other blokes in the sea.

 

“I’ll never find anyone,” Harry moaned for the millionth time before taking a swig of Firewhisky. “You have Hermione and I am a socially abysmal failure.”

 

Ron barely contained an eyeroll.  “Do you have anything to eat?”

 

Harry rolled onto his stomach and propped his head on his chin. “There’re some honey cakes in the fridge.” He pointed vaguely in some direction.  “Go heat up a plate.  Oh—I think your Queen just flipped me off.”  Harry squinted at the chess piece.  “Can they do that?”

 

“Yeah, when you take 45 minutes to make a move,” Ron growled, getting up and heading to the kitchen.

 

Harry sighed and rolled over onto his back.  He sighed again.

 

Then he heard a knock.

 

“Stop banging around in there,” he called to Ron.

 

“I’m not—there’s someone at the door.”

 

Confused—he never got any company—Harry used the sofa to pull himself into a semblance of standing and weaved an unsteady path to the door.  He cast a Transparency Charm on the door and almost fell over.  Malfoy was standing there with his sodding _mother!_

 

Harry reeled back, scrambling into the kitchen.  “Ron!” he hissed.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“It’s him!  He’s _here!_ ”  Harry whispered with frantic drunkenness.  “ _With his mother!”_

 

Ron’s eyes bulged. “No!  Well . . . go answer it.”

 

“No!” Harry still whispered.  

 

“I’m not going to listen to you whine for the next month, regretting not opening the door.”

 

“Do you have a Sobering Solution?”

 

Ron shook his head as the knocking started again.

 

Steeling himself and wishing he was sober, Harry marched to the front door and threw it open.  “Hello Malfoy and Mrs. Malfoy,” he greeted before the door bounced forcefully back on it’s hinges and shut in all of their faces.  “Shit.”  Harry took a fortifying breath and opened the door again more carefully.  “And how might I help you?”

 

Narcissa and her son exchanged glances.  

 

It had only been two months, but Malfoy looked different already.  Tired.

 

“ _This_ is what you’re afraid of?” Harry heard Narcissa say.  He squinted at her, thinking he ought to be offended.

 

“Shut _up_ Mother, he can hear you!” frowned Malfoy.  He gave Harry a careful look and then sniffed. “Are you drunk, Potter?”

 

“Well, guess it takes one to know one,” Harry said, sounding meaner and far less clever than he’d intended.  “Sorry.  Yes, probably.  But Ron said I had to answer the door or I’d regret it forever.  So . . . what is it?”

 

Narcissa gave him a disapproving look.  “My son needs to speak with you, Mr. Potter, but he refused to leave the house. We compromised.”

 

Harry blinked, dazedly, just noticing the bands of Incarcerous around Malfoy’s wrists.  He stared.  “Is that—?”

 

“Oh.”  Narcissa removed the bands.  “Well, Draco, I trust you can speak with Mr. Potter like an adult?”

 

Malfoy looked mortified.  He rubbed his wrists and nodded.

 

“My apologies if I appear callous,” Narcissa said.  “My son has placed me in a rather difficult position, as of late. It was either this or Saint Mungo’s.”

 

“You can go now, Mother,” hissed Malfoy.

 

Narcissa nodded, gave Harry one last disapproving look, and Disapparated.

 

Harry gestured for Malfoy to come in.  Malfoy looked around the room, eyeing the Firewhisky bottle and chess game.

 

“Weasel’s here?” Malfoy asked.

 

“Oh, yeah!”  said Harry.  “Ron, come say hi.”

 

Malfoy widened his eyes and started shaking his head.  Ron trudged in slowly from the kitchen, looking about as happy as Malfoy.

 

“Hey,” he said.

 

Malfoy inclined his head.  “Weasel.”

 

Ron frowned, but didn’t take the bait.  He wiped his hands on a dishrag and hovered in the doorway.  “Look, uh, if you two are gonna talk it out, or whatever, I can get going.”

 

“No,” Harry said just as Malfoy said, “That would be terrific.”

 

Ron quickly left through the Floo, his chess game still on the floor.

 

Malfoy was cringing, presumably at the fire, so Harry quickly put it out.

 

“Okay,” Harry said, tossing his wand at his side.  “What is it?”

 

Malfoy shrugged.  “I did it.”

 

“You . . . did what?”

 

“The potion.  The antidote.  It’s perfect now.”

 

“That’s—well, that’s great.”  Harry’s head was extremely fuzzy and it was frustrating.  “I thought you were sick.”

 

“You know I wasn’t.”  Malfoy shifted. “Not conventionally.”  He gave a short laugh.

 

Harry just stared.  He knew he was frowning, but he couldn’t help it.  Malfoy’s rejection felt so much more real and raw and painful now that he was sitting there in front of him.

 

“I guess it’s not funny,” Malfoy amended.

 

“No,” said Harry, flatly.

 

They sat in an uncomfortable silence, save for the Celestina Warbeck interview playing on the WWN.

 

Finally, Malfoy cleared his throat.  “I actually missed you.  Sort of.”

 

“Yeah?  Real funny way you’ve got of showing it.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“I’m moved.”

 

“What do you want me to say, Potter?” Malfoy snapped, his eyes bright.

 

“I dunno,” Harry replied, dully.  “Good on you.  You’re sorry.  You made the potion.  Hooray for you.”

 

Malfoy’s jaw clenched.  “Contrary to your deluded beliefs, the bleeding martyr act doesn’t suit you.”

 

“ _Fuck you_ , Malfoy.”

 

“Fuck you, too, Potter.”  Malfoy said, his voice cracking. “Don’t even know why I came.” He stumbled to his feet and made for the door.

 

“Wait.” Harry closed his eyes, resigned.  “Don’t go.  I’m . . . not myself right now, so I know I’m being a bit of a prat.  I’m just so—” he closed his eyes and let out a long breath, “ _angry_. I’m so, so angry.  I’m fucking mad at you, okay?”  Malfoy hesitated, his features tight.  “But Ron’s right, too,” Harry continued.  “I’ll regret it if you leave so please don’t.”

 

Malfoy still hung by the door.  “Well, I’m mad at you, too.”

 

“For what?” Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew.

 

“Taking advantage.”  Malfoy put his nose in the air.

 

“I didn’t mean to,” said Harry, sighing.  “But, I guess I did.  I shouldn’t have gone to your house and I shouldn’t have listened to the Prophecy.  I knew you were drunk.  I knew you probably wouldn’t have shown it to me, otherwise.  But I thought if I heard it I could help.”

 

“You did,” said Malfoy.  He made his way back to the sofa and sat.  “But then I found something else to worry about.”

 

“What?”

 

“You.”

 

Harry snorted.  “I’m not that scary.”

 

Malfoy gave him a look.  “No,” he agreed. “You really are kind of an idiot.”

 

“And it only took you two months to realize that?”

 

Closing his eyes, Malfoy took a deep breath and exhaled.  He did this again.  

 

By the third time, Harry was concerned.  “You okay?”

 

“I need to say something.”  Malfoy’s eyes were still closed.   “And it may not make any sense to you and it might even seem completely out of nowhere but you can’t laugh—not even, not even that joking laugh that you do sometimes, Potter, that ‘Oh, isn’t he being silly’ laugh.  I mean it.  You cannot laugh, because this is,” Malfoy paused, breathing rapidly, “this is not easy for me to do or say.  I’m putting myself on the line.  And-and if you don’t like what I have to say then just say so nicely and I’ll walk.  I-I will.  But-” Malfoy was blinking rapidly, working himself into a panic.

 

“I won’t laugh,” Harry insisted.  “What is it?”

 

Malfoy turned away and crossed his arms.  “I like you.”

 

“I like you, too,” Harry said after a few moments.

 

Shaking his head rapidly, Malfoy began again.  “No.  I mean.  I like you. A-and I like blokes.”  He paused.  “See? And I like you.”

 

Harry felt giddy with excitement.  He started to laugh, then caught himself.  Malfoy noticed and pinned him with a warning glare.  “Sorry.  It’s just—I like you, too,” Harry said.  “Um.  And I like blokes.  And I like you. Rather a lot.”  He grinned, sheepishly.

 

“You do?” he sounded doubtful.

 

Harry nodded.

 

“Even though I’m fucked up?” Malfoy said, plaintively.

 

“We’re all fucked up,” Harry replied.  “But you seriously need to stop running from me.  I know you freaked out last time because you were partly embarrassed but I said it before.  I’m not that scary.  I certainly don’t try to be.  I mean, between the two of us, you’re much scarier than me.”

 

Malfoy made a face.

 

“You know what I mean.  Stop worrying about what I think.”

 

“As if I would,”  Malfoy sniffed.  Then he said, “I really am sorry, Potter.  It’s stupid. I knew I’d made a fool of myself and I just couldn’t face you.  And all those fucking letters.  I didn’t know what to say.  I still don’t.  And, obviously, I knew you were upset, which made it worse because then I felt guilty on top of everything else, but I just couldn’t do it.  So, I told myself if I kept working on the antidote, then I hadn’t really done anything wrong.  I’m an arsehole, I know. And I’m sorry.” Malfoy dug into his pocket and pulled something out.  “Also, I got you something.  As a sort of apology.”  He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

 

Harry opened the paper and stared.  It was the deed to the old Florean Fortescue’s, written over into Harry’s name.  “Malfoy . . .”

 

“Now you can sell your scones,” he said casually.  

 

“But—this is too much.  I can’t accept this.”

 

“Knuts and sickles, Potter.  For me, anyway.  Plus, it’s an excuse for me to get out of the house.”

 

“Oh my God.”  Harry gaped at him.  “Thank you.”  Unable to stop himself, Harry leaned over and kissed Malfoy.

 

Malfoy looked surprised, then he closed his eyes and returned the kiss.  After a moment, he pulled back gently and smirked at Harry through lowered lashes.  “You’re quite welcome, Potter.”

 

Harry grinned, hardly able to believe his sudden luck.

 

….

….

….

 

“I’ll have a Double Dumbledore, please.”

 

It was the end of August and the line at Potter’s Patisserie was out the door and into the street.  

 

“Did you just hop the line?”  Harry demanded, scooping pistachio ice cream over two cranberry biscuits.

 

“I’m a paying customer and part owner.  Yes.”

 

Harry tried not to laugh.  He could see two mothers whispering to each other and giving Malfoy dark looks.  “You’re pissing off my customers,” Harry said quietly.  Then he gave a friendly, “Here you go!” and handed a Pistachio Peeves to a little girl in braids.

 

“I could just Confund them all,  if you’d like,” Malfoy offered.  “Then they won’t be mad anymore.”

 

“No.”  Harry handed change to the girl’s mother.  He quickly scooped vanilla ice cream onto two, warm blueberry scones, and all but threw it at Malfoy.  

 

One of the mothers scowled at Harry.  He gave her an apologetic look.

 

“I could shut this place down, Potter,” Malfoy said, eagerly grabbing his Double Dumbledore.  “You’ll want to be a bit politer to your investors.”

 

“Shut up, Malfoy.”  Harry paused and gave him an exasperated smile, lowering his voice. “I’ll see you at home and then you can bother me all night, okay?"

 

Malfoy hummed, thoughtfully.

 

"Also, how is it that you keep getting away from work?  Does George know you’re taking, like, five breaks a day?”

 

“No, he does not.  Good-bye, Potter.”  Malfoy grabbed a spoon and hurried from the shop, presumably back to his job at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.  George had been so impressed with Malfoy’s antidote—everyone had, really—that he’d asked him specifically to create antidotes for three of his other potions.  The promise of an antidote had George’s potion business booming and George soon offered Malfoy a full time position in his store as a Potioneer.

 

After two more months of working as an Auror, Harry finally had enough and officially resigned. Shortly after, he opened Potter’s Patisserie—Malfoy had helped with the name, insisting the “Potter” part _did_ commemorate Harry’s parents and didn’t sound nearly as creepy as “Lily’s Licks” or “James’ Jollies.”

 

Their relationship had grown rapidly serious, and since they both worked in Diagon Alley, it seemed only fitting for Malfoy to move into Harry’s flat.  Malfoy still had anxiety issues and the occasional panic attack, but he’d made amazing strides over the last year and really worked hard to ingratiate himself back into Wizarding society. He still had to force himself to leave the house at least once a day—sometimes Harry had to drag him—but slowly the outside world became a less daunting place.  Malfoy’s confidence returned and, with it, an insufferable attitude and sense of entitlement that had him doing things like cutting the line for ice cream at Harry’s shop.

 

But, if Harry were to be perfectly honest, he found it rather charming.

 

And Harry always forgave Malfoy, of course, having realized the importance of what Hermione once told him: forgiveness was truly healing.

 

And, according to Draco Malfoy, so were Harry’s blueberry scones.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 


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